


Little Crystals

by VelkynKarma



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Amnesia, Blood, Gen, Illness, Injury, other tags will be added as needed, smol!Slav
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11987949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/pseuds/VelkynKarma
Summary: A collection of prompts & fills from tumblr, finally being assembled on AO3 by popular demand. Different prompts feature different themes and characters, but all stories will be platonic. Ratings range from general to teen, lengths are entirely unpredictable.





	1. Amnesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the April Fools prompts, "Shiro + amnesia."

They search for months for Shiro, hunting through the last battle site, combing through the Black Lion’s sensors and feeds for some kind of sign, pulling apart every scientific theory they can think of for some explanation of where he’s gone. But in the end, they find him by complete accident, when making a quick stopover at a planet in the space-boonies before going back to the search.  
  
“Oh!” the tree-like shopkeep says, as she hands Hunk a woven basket of herbs and spices (Lance had been excited at the prospect of visiting a dryad planet, until they realized these people were more like Lord of the Rings ents than anything else). “You look a bit like Bark-of-Iron.” (It takes Hunk a second to realize that’s an approximate translation of a name; Altean speech translators are weird, sometimes). “Except his bark is much paler, poor thing, and very cut up. Are you friends of his?”  
  
And Hunk and Lance exchange glances, eyes wide, and holler for the others to get to their location _immediately_ over the comms.  
  
All six of them listen with stunned delight as the startled shopkeep closes her stand and takes them to their communal living grounds. “We found Bark-of-Iron in the middle of our groves,” she explains. “We thought he might be a predator, but he has been very sweet, helping us tend the trees and protect our sproutlings. He is very patient for one of you soft-bark species. I am happy to know he has others of his own kind, though. He has never spoken of any, so we weren’t sure.”  
  
The team doesn’t know what to think of that, or know why Shiro wouldn’t have tried to contact when these people are clearly familiar with space travel, but as long as they get him back they don’t care. They burst through the vine-woven doors of the chamber the shopkeep says is Shiro’s, and _there he is_ , standing in the middle of the room and regarding the doors with surprise.  
  
All six of them rush forward to envelop Shiro in the biggest hug-pile the universe has ever seen. They exclaim delightedly about being so happy to see him again, about being so glad he’s safe, why didn’t he call them? Hunk and Coran are crying, Lance is pretty close, and even Keith, Pidge and Allura look shaky as they cling, like they’re afraid he’ll disappear if they let go.  
  
And then it happens. Shiro stumbles under the clingy onslaught, but recovers his balance with their help. He squirms uncomfortably in their grip, stares down and around at them all in confusion, and finally says, “I’m sorry, I don’t…who are you people, exactly?”


	2. Problem Solving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April fools prompts, Shiro and Hunk, Problem Solving.

“What do we do?” Hunk asks, frantic.   
  
The mission had gone horribly wrong. It was just one supply ship they were supposed to be taking out. Their intel was supposed to be solid, from a trustworthy source. But more Galra warships had come out of nowhere, and they’d been overwhelmed. Already the Red, Blue and Green Lions have been taken, along with their pilots, and with them split up like this they can’t even form Voltron. Hunk and Shiro alone against a small legion of fighters and warships are not good odds. Even with Coran and Allura providing support in the Castle, things aren’t looking good.  
  
“We save them,” Shiro says. He sounds grim, but also determined, and Hunk feels himself settling a little. He’s scared for his friends, yes, no question—but now he’s also _mad_. The Galra have no right to take his friends. They’re going to _regret_ it.   
  
They just need to figure out how to _make_ them regret it, first.  
  
“We need to stop that ship before it jumps into hyperspeed,” Shiro says. “If they do we won’t be able to catch them or know for sure where they’re headed. We have a little time if they’re still after the two of us, but not much.”  
  
Not much is right. Hunk’s sure the Galra will cut and run even without capturing Shiro or himself if the risk becomes too great—they’ve got bait, after all. Zarkon knows they’ll come after their friends. They’ve done it before. And it takes more than a couple Lions to bring down a full warship quickly. They need Voltron for that, but with only the head and one leg, they’re sunk in that regard.   
  
Hunk glares at the warship even as his Lion smashes through three fighters in rapid succession. If it would just spit out his friends or if they could break themselves out or even if they could just buy some time by keeping it from a hyperspeed jump—  
  
Wait.  
  
“Shiro!” Hunk yells, suddenly inspired. “I think maybe I can disable their hyperspeed from the outside if I target the right systems. Pidge got some schematics last time when she hacked them and we looked the designs over and they’re really advanced and it’ll be tricky and—well—it might not work but I’m _pretty_ sure I can do it.“  
  
“Good,” Shiro says. “Go. I’ll cover you, keep the fighters off you so you can focus.”  
  
“You sure? That’s…that’s a _lot_ of fighters to take on solo, Shiro.”   
  
“I can do it if you can keep that thing from escaping,” Shiro says, confident. “We are getting the others back. I’m not losing anybody again.”   
  
Hunk knows he’s talking about the time Allura was taken, but his own memory goes back to that empty pilot’s seat in the Black Lion. He nods slowly in agreement (even if Shiro still probably can’t see him). He’s not losing anybody again, either.  
  
“Okay, follow me!” Hunk yells, and shoves the Yellow Lion’s controllers forward, pushing for as much speed as he can. _Lance, Pidge, Keith, hold on guys,_ he thinks to himself. _Me and Shiro are coming._


	3. Galaxy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fools prompts, Shiro + Galaxy

By now, Coran has taught all of them to use the star charts on the bridge, and how to locate specific planets or bring up planetary data on any individual location.  
  
Coran claims that it’s to ensure the paladins are all capable of handling themselves with Altean technology, or so they can plot a course accurately in the event that he or Allura are compromised. But all of them know better than that, even if Coran is kind enough to pretend otherwise. Shiro knows Lance sneaks up to the bridge all the time, to look at the charts and find Earth, and learn exactly how far away they are at any given point. He’s pretty sure Hunk does the same, sometimes even joining Lance on the midnight ventures. And he’s pretty sure Pidge uses it too, although she looks less at Earth and more at the other galaxies, searching through files upon files of stolen data as she tries to guess where her father and brother might be. Even Keith visits the bridge every once and a while now and brings up the holographic stars, although he never searches for anything; just stares around at them all, with an odd, unknowing expression on his face.  
  
Shiro doesn’t begrudge any of them the chance to look. If he heads to the bridge on a sleepless night or during an off moment to get some work done and one of them is there, he leaves them be. It’s a private thing for all of them, most of the time, and he doesn’t want to interfere.  
  
But Shiro uses the charts, too. Late at night, after another grueling nightmare, he often finds himself wandering to the bridge. And if it’s unoccupied, he’ll bring up the charts himself, and the color coordinations filter to show which planets and entire galaxies are occupied by the Galra force, and which aren’t.   
  
There’s always so much red, so many planets that have sent out distress signals and never received help. _Millions_ of planets out there occupied by the Galra, spreading like a plague for ten thousand years unopposed. It’s on a scale so great Shiro’s human mind can barely comprehend it, and the task in front of the paladins is so huge sometimes this is the only way he can even come _close_ to understanding just how much work they have to do. Even with Zarkon defeated. Even with the Empire starting to fragment. Even with the Blade of Marmora and their allies driving a wedge farther into the cracks every day.   
  
Sometimes, after a victory—after they’ve liberated another planet, broken down another splintered faction of the Empire—Shiro will visit the star charts again too. He hunts down the galaxy they’re in, finds the planet, feels a tiny sense of pride when that little red dot changes to blue. He clings to that feeling of victory when he can, because for all their work, blood, sweat and tears, there’s still too much red in those charts.   
  
And still he goes back, many nights, and brings them up again. The swathe of red across the galaxies, across the _universe_ , is like a red storm. It’s so massive and they’re so _small_ , even in Voltron, that they just aren’t strong enough or big enough to stop it no matter how much they try. He’s not sure why he expects to see an obvious, visual change, on those nights. Nothing they do seems enough. This doesn’t seem like a fight they can win. On those nights he despairs.  
  
But then he remembers the little blue marks—the innocent planets that have yet to see the storm, and never will if they keep fighting, or the planets that have been _freed_ because of all their work, however hopeless it seems.   
  
And he gains a little more hope from them. Because it might be a difficult fight, and it might be impossible to free _all_ of those planets. But those blue flecks among the stars are still worth fighting for, and he doesn’t intend to give up on it.


	4. Scavenger Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge and Hunk and a scavenger hunt

“I can’t read this list at all!” Hunk yelps, waving the scrap of paper anxiously. “How are we even supposed to _start_ doing this?”  
  
“That’s part of the training,” Shiro says. He looks calm, but Hunk is _sure_ he’s smiling behind that leader mask, the jerk. “If you’re on a foreign planet you need to figure out what to do, right?”  
  
Hunk grumbles. When Shiro had mentioned they were doing a new kind of ‘team building exercise’ today, Hunk had assumed it would be some kind of new combat exercise. Shiro was big on those. He hadn’t expected it to be a scavenger hunt of all things. Clearly, Shiro has more of a wicked sense of humor than anyone had anticipated.  
  
“Hand it over,” Pidge says, reaching up for the scrap of paper in Hunk’s hand. She’s on tiptoes just trying to get it, and Hunk obligingly hands it down to his partner. For today’s exercise, Shiro had divided them into the right and left quadrants of Voltron, insisting that it was important to have good coordination between each other to _literally_ coordinate the massive robot down the line.   
  
Pidge snatches the paper as soon as it’s within reach, and glances over briefly at the opposing team, hunching over their assignments protectively. Hunk doesn’t think she has to bother. Lance and Keith are, from the sounds of it, already too busy bickering over their own inability to read _their_ instructions. Hunk barely makes out any of it (“You’re the alien, you read it!” “I’m not an alien, I can’t read it any better than you!”) before Pidge taps him on the arm.  
  
“I got it, let’s go,” she says, gesturing for the door.   
  
“Wait, you know what it says?” Hunk asks incredulously, as he follows.  
  
“It’s Altean, and I can recognize Coran’s handwriting,” Pidge says, grinning competitively. “Shiro must have asked him for help on the instructions. But I’ve been learning Altean, so I can decode it. I’m even used to Coran’s chicken-scratch.” She glances over her shoulder to make sure Keith and Lance aren’t following, and adds in a whisper, “The first item we’re looking for is a five and three-quarters lightwell wrench.”  
  
Hunk lights up. “I’ve got one of those in my work station!” he says, trying to keep his enthusiasm relatively low-volume.  
  
“Great, let’s go then!”  
  
Two vargas later, the two of them stand proudly before Shiro, unloading the assorted items and requirements on their scavenger list. Some of them had actually been quite tricky—like getting Allura’s autograph (while she had been deliberately instructed to avoid them), or a photo of Shiro himself without being noticed (which had taken a team effort of Hunk distracting and Pidge sneaking close enough to get the shot). Other tasks had involved riddles that were a piece of cake to pull apart between their brains, or getting into difficult spaces (the trickiest of which was letting Pidge stand on his shoulders to unscrew an air duct vent, so she could crawl into it and retrieve a worn out filter they’d needed). In retrospect, Shiro had actually designed the challenges really well—the game had been silly, but Hunk can see how these sorts of stealth and problem-solving skills _could_ be applied to actual missions.  
  
“I think that’s a solid win, wouldn’t you say?” Pidge says, smug. Hunk glances over at Keith and Lance, and has to agree. Even if they hadn’t gotten every item on the list, they’d certainly beaten the opposing team’s whole _three_ items, and the two of them were still bickering.   
  
“You did a good job,” Shiro says, looking through the spoils. He glances at the perfect profile shot of himself on Pidge’s wrist computer, and nods, clearly impressed. “I didn’t even notice that. Left Team wins—you can be excused from the last exercise today.”   
  
Pidge and Hunk grin in delight, and exchange a truly victorious high five.


	5. Protective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fools prompts, Keith and protective Shiro.  
> Does contain some graphic injury, FYI.

The Galra officer is massive—nearly as large as the prison warden back on Beta Traz. Even worse, he’s juiced on whatever that warden had used to make himself larger, faster and stronger, and he’s using the drug to its fullest to lay waste to the paladins.  
  
If they survive this, Shiro’s going to make it a priority to research whatever that stuff is, and find some way to counter it. It’s rapidly becoming dangerous, and makes already skilled opponents impossible to defeat. They’d never even actually defeated the last warden, just escaped from him.   
  
Shiro’s hoping on escape now. It’s only him and Keith against this monster of a Galra, hemmed into the Galra ship they’d boarded. But if even one of the others can show up in their Lion, they might still get out of this in one piece. Shiro’s already sent the distress call; it’s just a matter of if anyone gets there in time.  
  
Because he and Keith are probably the most experienced in combat, but they are really, _really_ not doing well. Shiro’s sure he landed on something wrong in his side, and breathing hurts; he might have cracked his ribs when he smashed into the nearest stack of metal boxes after the Galra threw him. His head throbs where it hit a wall earlier, and he’s sure if he hadn’t been wearing his helmet his skull would have split open at the force of the blow. Keith is no better as far as Shiro can tell—he’s limping, favoring his right leg, and he’s long since switched to wielding his bayard in his left hand after his right wrist and fingers were crushed in the Galra’s grip.   
  
Shiro tries for another strike with his glowing Galra prosthetic, but the officer roars and almost casually slaps him aside with an effortless backhand. Shiro manages to cross both of his arms in front of him to take some of the blow, but it’s still like getting hit with a train. He crashes into the ground and bounces twice painfully before he can convert his momentum into a safety roll. He staggers when he gets to his feet, dazed, and his vision swims when he tries to focus.  
  
The Galra’s massive hand is less than a foot from his face.  
  
Then there’s a snarl as Keith hits it from the side, knocking the hand off course. He twists his bayard and slams it savagely into the meaty part of the Galra’s arm, and for the first time team Voltron manages to draw blood. The officer’s attention is drawn away from Shiro to Keith—and he looks livid.  
  
“Little shit,” he snarls angrily, and makes a grab for Keith. Keith tries to dodge, and might have if he’d had free reign, but he can’t get his bayard free from the Galra’s thick arm. He goes for his Marmoran sword instead, but in the split-second delay the Galra snatches him up first and squeezes. Keith’s eyes fly open wide, and he screams, until the noise chokes off into a frightening silence when the crushing force steals his breath.   
  
Apparently not finished, the officer turns and throws him at the nearest wall. Keith smashes bonelessly against it, and collapses to the metal floors. He looks awful, mangled and broken. But even now he struggles to reach for the Marmoran blade at the small of his back, broken fingers shaky and weak.  
  
“Still moving?” the officer says incredulously, as he rips the red bayard out of his arm and tosses it aside. It dematerializes as it clatters to the floor, and the officer ignores it as he charges for Keith.  
  
Shiro’s vision is still blurry and swirling, but suddenly he sees _red_ , and that doesn’t bother him anymore.  
  
He charges forward, activating his jetpack for as much speed as he can. Ricochets off the wall and uses the momentum to help him twist past the Galra. Slams to his feet over the prone Keith,  legs braced, and reaches up to catch the officer’s fist as it comes slamming down to crush Keith into paste.  
  
Catches it, and _stops_ it.   
  
It shouldn’t be possible, but he’s _far_ past caring if something is possible or not. It doesn’t matter how much of a beating he’s already taken from this bastard, _none_ of his team are dying on his watch. _Keith_ is not dying on his watch. Not when he can do anything to stop it. If he has to bend possibility to make it happen he damn well _will._   
  
So he strains against the Galra’s fist, and his own prosthetic whines to life at the challenge. He needs to be the strongest, the fastest, the _best_ fighter in this equation, and the prosthetic is almost _eager_ to assist, whirring and clicking loudly as it absorbs the force of the enemy’s blow and pushes back with literally inhuman strength. He can feel the strain of it in his left arm, his torso, his legs, feel every other piece of him trembling and straining with the effort of holding off that force, feel his cracked ribs all but _screaming_ in protest at the pressure, but he does it.  
  
He will not lose anyone again.   
  
The Galra officer is shocked, and pushes against his arm even harder. Shiro snarls and shoves back with everything he has, and he can smell sizzling fur and flesh as the prosthetic activates and his white-hot fingers dig into his enemy’s wrist. “ _You do not_. Ever. _Hurt them. While I’m. Still. Breathing.”_   
  
The officer sneers. “Then I’ll stop you breathing first,” he snaps, as he raises his other hand.   
  
Shiro vaguely thinks he hears Keith choking a soft, weak _“No”_ down by his feet, but Keith is down for the count, and there’s no way he’s getting out of this. He stares the officer in the eye, refusing to go down without fighting, and—  
  
The wall smashes open behind the officer, and there’s a sudden rush of air as the atmosphere is dragged into the void of space. Shiro braces his feet more firmly to keep himself steady and prevent Keith from sliding away, and the officer snarls in surprise, weakening his downward force on Shiro’s arms. “What—“  
  
The blast from the Yellow Lion takes the Galra full in the back, and he screams in surprise as he lurches forward. Shiro finally drops his grip on the officer’s arm and barely manages to drag Keith out of the way before the officer collapses forward towards them, shrieking in surprise.  
  
“Need a lift?” Hunk calls, voice resonating from the Lion’s speakers.  
  
Shiro’s never been happier to hear any of the paladins. “Good timing,” he says, as he crouches to scoop Keith up into his arms; there’s no way Keith is walking under his own power after a devastating attack like that. Keith gasps in pain, but doesn’t protest. Shiro’s ribs _do_ protest, but he ignores them. He bolts for the Yellow Lion’s open jaws, side-tracking just long enough to kick the red bayard into the Lion’s mouth. “We’re in!”   
  
The last image he has is of the officer struggling to his feet and turning to snarl and reach for them. But then the Yellow Lion’s jaws snap shut and Shiro feels it withdraw from the hull of the ship, and they’re out of there.   
  
“Shiro?” Keith gasps weakly.   
  
“We’re okay. You’re okay,” Shiro promises him.  
  
Keith groans in what Shiro is sure isn’t really agreement, but does settle a little, all energy spent and too exhausted and in pain to argue. Shiro keeps Keith supported against him as comfortably as he can to steady them in the Yellow Lion’s jaws; he doesn’t want to risk moving Keith any further up to the cockpit. He needs a cryo-pod, _now._   
  
But at least he’s alive, and already they’re heading for safety. They’d made it through the fight, and he’d managed to save Keith another day. And for now, that’s all that matters to Shiro.


	6. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fools prompts, Lance and Keith: bonding

“I need you to teach me how to shoot.”  
  
Lance nearly chokes on his food, and breaks into a set of hacking coughs as he tries to recover. After a moment he finally manages to breathe deeply, and stares at Keith. “Sorry, _what_ was that?”  
  
Keith scowls for a moment, until he realizes Lance isn’t trying to rub it in, or anything. He really is actually surprised by the request. “I need you to teach me how to shoot,” he repeats, a little slower this time. “Better, anyway. I know the basics, but…” he shrugs.  
  
Truth be told, he doesn’t really want to fully admit it out loud to Lance, but after the assault on Zarkon’s ship he’s been painfully aware of exactly where he’s lacking in combat skills. In hand to hand he’s unrivaled by any of them but Shiro, but when it comes to shooting…well, he’d been more than a little disappointed in his aim while covering for Thace. He’d known how to properly hold the Galra blaster, but it had taken three or for shots for every single sentry he’d managed to bring down. Most of the time he’d just hit the walls around them.   
  
He’d never bothered with ranged target practice in past training sessions, really. He’s always had a sword bayard, and close combat suits him and his combat style best anyway. Lance and Hunk have always been there for the range. But that mission made it painfully clear that sometimes Lance or Hunk _won’t_ be around, and sometimes he’s going to have to go outside his own comfort zone to get the job done.   
  
Besides, fighting is one of the few things he’s _good_ at. He’s not tech-savvy like Hunk or Pidge, and he’s not really good with people like Shiro or Lance. He doesn’t want to leave any weaknesses in the one area he considers his major strength.   
  
If it means biting the bullet and asking Lance for help, he’ll do it. He’s not to proud to ask for help where it matters, even _if_ Lance will probably be obnoxious about it.  
  
Lance is regarding him suspiciously now, like this is some sort of trap. “Why are you asking _me?_ ” he asks, disbelieving and uncertain. “Why not ask Hunk? He uses a cannon. That’s ranged.”  
  
“Hunk’s is more like a machine gun,” Keith says. “Lots of blasts, lots of damage, but not a lot of accuracy. It’s dangerous because it just chews up anything in front of it. I need better precision. That’s your specialty.”   
  
Lance still looks partly suspicious, but Keith can see him preening a little under the attention, too. Keith’s he’s gotten better at noticing the teams’ strengths and weaknesses, and figuring out how to work with them better ever since his temporary stint as leader. Lance always did best with praise, and Keith had been genuinely shocked the first time he realized Lance’s bravado and constant needling had been the result of insecurities rather than genuinely being a self-absorbed ass. He’s tried to work around it a little better since, and there’s _mostly_ no harm in admitting when Lance is genuinely good at something, or even better than him at it.   
  
“Well, I _am_ the team sharpshooter,” Lance drawls after a moment.   
  
“Right,” Keith agrees, since that’s not exactly wrong, and adds quickly, “So. Will you help?”  
  
“Help you _what_ ,” Lance asks, with a wide grin, and okay, this time it is _definitely_ to be annoying.  
  
Keith sighs. “Train in sharpshooting,” he repeats, trying to keep the annoyed edge out of his voice.  
  
Lance smirks. “Well, I _guess_ I can,” he agrees. “Since I am the best at it, after all. Even better than _Keith._ ”   
  
His expression grows more serious then, though, right before Keith throws up his hands and decides to fight a training gladiator instead because it _has_ to be less obnoxious than this. “But you gotta actually listen to _everything_ I say, okay? Shooting’s dangerous. If we’re gonna make you a better sniper I want you getting the right habits so you don’t get yourself or anyone else killed. I’m not going to teach you anything if you’re gonna use it to just rush in like you do with swords.”  
  
“As long as it’s related to the shooting training, that’s fair,” Keith agrees. He can tell that for all Lance’s fooling around, this is definitely something he takes _very_ seriously, and Keith can respect that.  
  
“Great.” Lance pauses. “Do you even have a firearm to practice with? I’m not sure you could use my bayard.”  
  
“We’ve got a couple captured Galra blasters,” Keith says. “And I think there’s some Altean ranged weaponry in their armory somewhere.”  
  
“Awesome.” Lance shoves the rest of his bowl of food goo to the mice waiting on the table, and grins. “Then let’s get sharpshooting, yeah? As long as we’re aware I’m _always_ going to be the best at it.”  
  
He probably will be, actually; Lance very rarely misses. “You’re throne’s not in danger,” Keith promises, with a roll of his eyes, but also partly to assure Lance that he’s _not_ out to oust him from his “thing” on the team. “I’m just learning so I can make decent backup if needed. Clear?”  
  
“As crystal,” Lance agrees.


	7. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fools Prompts: 'Home,' Ulaz and Shiro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot this was a thing! Winter cleaning to try and get all these up before the end of the year haha >_>;;;

“Tell me about Earth again,” Ulaz prompts.  
  
“I’ve told you about Earth a dozen times now,” Shiro points out. “And you’ve listened to the others talk about it too.”  
  
Ulaz blinks at him. “Do you dislike talking about your home?”  
  
“It’s not that,” Shiro says hastily, because it really isn’t. Talking about Earth is nice, some days. Thinking back to his home can bring back pleasant memories of his family and friends, the countries he’s lived in, the places he’s seen, the cultures he’s witnessed, the foods he’s eaten. But sometimes it hurts, too, to know he can remember those things but likely won’t have them again for a long time.   
  
But there’s something else, besides. “I don’t mind talking about Earth, but doesn’t it get boring to listen to after a while? Don’t you want to talk about your own home?”  
  
“You have seen it,” Ulaz says, waving a hand in disinterest. “It is not particularly interesting.”  
  
For one heart-stopping moment, Shiro is sure Ulaz is talking about the shattered remnants of Zarkon’s homeland that the Black Lion had shown him in their bonding experience. But he’s never told even the paladins the full details of that, much less Ulaz. “Uh…sorry?”  
  
“The Blade of Marmora main base,” Ulaz elaborates. “The one I sent you to after meeting at our outpost. That, and several other outposts.”  
  
“You..you grew _up_ in those?” Shiro asks, surprised. They hadn’t been allowed to see too much of the base when he and Keith had gone to meet with Kolivan, but his general impression of the place had been cold, impersonal, and practical, entirely built for stealth and war. Not the kind of place one kept children.  
  
Ulaz shrugs, as if the entire concept is normal, and he’s not sure why Shiro is so shocked. “Many of the Blade of Marmora have been members since birth. We have so few in number, our members span through generations. It is easiest to train from infancy to prepare agents for the level of expertise and skill needed to combat the Galra Empire. But they do not make for particularly interesting stories. Most of the bases look the same.”  
  
“You’ve been training for this since _birth?”_ Shiro asks, voice strained. One the one hand, that does explain why so many of the Blade members are exceptional in combat, and why they are so fiercely loyal to the cause, if they’ve been indoctrinated since the day they were born. On the other hand… “You didn’t get to…I don’t know, play, or travel, or live outside, or celebrate holidays, or figure out what you were interested in doing with your life, or…or _anything_ like that?” _You didn’t get a childhood at all? You didn’t have a real home?_  
  
Ulaz merely blinks at Shiro once. “I chose the forms of combat I prefer, if that is what you mean,” he offers after a moment. “I was taken to some planets for stealth and survival training. We honored Marmora on the day of the Blade.”  
  
Shiro can only stare.  
  
“I do not understand why this seems to confuse you so much, though,” Ulaz adds. “Perhaps it is an Earth concept. Even among the Empire Galra, most of their young are born on ships or in established settlements on colonized planets. There is no ‘home’ to speak of, really. The Galra homeworld ceased to exist decafeebs ago.”   
  
Shiro can see the Black Lion’s memory perfectly again, of that planet shattered to pieces, dead and cold. He swallows.  
  
“But it is interesting to listen to your tales of Earth,” Ulaz says. “Your world and your cultures are so different. It is intriguing. Perhaps, when the Empire is reformed after the tyrant Zarkon is deposed, my people can discover something like that again.”   
  
Shiro doesn’t really know what to say to that. So instead, he says, “How about I tell you about the cherry blossom season in Japan again?”   
  
“I would enjoy that,” Ulaz says.   
  
So Shiro does. 


	8. Robotics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fools prompts: Colleen Holt and Shiro, "Robotics"

“Oh, Mrs. Holt! Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your project. I was just looking for the Commander…”  
  
“It’s Colleen, please,” she says, wiping her hands on a spare rag. “If you’re going to spend over six months trapped in a ship with half my family, you’re basically family anyway.” She smiles, and gestures to the contraption on the table. “What do you think? Are you interested in robotics?”  
  
“Not as much as flying,” Shiro admits, as he cocks his head and crouches a little to get a better look at the…whatever it is. “But it is still kind of fascinating to see how far technology has really come. What is it for, exactly?”  
  
“It’s supposed to be a prototype for use in medical facilities,” she explains, gesturing to the pieces. “We’re trying to improve the functionality of surgical robots, especially for those on the Moon and Mars colonies.”   
  
She frowns a little. “It’s not responding as well as I’d like, though. Something is still wrong with the build…” She toys with the controls set on one corner of the table. The arms on the surgical robot start to move smoothly, but ends up getting stuck after a moment. She sighs. “Well, it’s progress, anyway.”   
  
“Still better than anything I could make,” Shiro says.  
  
“That’s just because you’ve never tried,” Colleen says, smiling. “We could steal you from the Garrison for the Robotics department yet. If even a fraction of what Sam says is true, you’re certainly bright enough for it.”  
  
Shiro laughs. “Sorry, but I’m already spoken for by Kerberos. Maybe after I get back I’ll think about it.”  
  
“Darn,” Colleen says, with mock disappointment. “I never can seem to poach Sam’s best people, and he’s always stealing mine. He’s already gotten Matt, too. I suppose I’ll just have to make sure Katie has a solid foundation in robotics while he’s not around for six months to interfere.” She gives Shiro a conspiring look. “Don’t let on to my plans, now.”  
  
Shiro raises a hand in a salute. “Scout’s honor. He’ll never hear it from me.”  
  
She laughs. “Sam should be by in a few minutes to have lunch with me,” she says, checking her watch. “You can have a few moments to speak with him then. In the meantime…do you want to see if we can figure out why this arm isn’t working?”  
  
“Sure,” Shiro says, leaning forward to help.


	9. Downpour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fools prompts: all the paladins, 'Downpour'

“Where did all this rain _come_ from?” Pidge asks incredulously. “And why does it have to happen now, when we’re in the middle of nowhere with no Lions?”  
  
Everyone is huddled around Shiro and Hunk, the tallest members of the team. Both have their energy shields activated and held over their heads to provide some sort of cover. But the shields aren’t really shaped to act like umbrellas, just to shield the width of a person, and everyone is getting spattered with fat purple raindrops.   
  
Lance is the exception. While the others are trying to stay as dry as possible, he’s enthusiastically darting around in the rain, arms out to the sky and catching raindrops on his tongue, or splashing around in the large puddles that have already formed.   
  
A particularly exuberant splash in a very large puddle sends a cascade of muddy yellow-purple water cascading all over the rest of the team, and Keith sputters indignantly. “I’m going to kill him,” the red paladin says after a moment.  
  
“No, just _mostly_ kill him,” Pidge corrects, scowling as she squeezes mud and water out of her hair. She tries to clean her glasses next, but they’re so drenched in water droplets she finally gives up. “Then the Blue Lion might show up to save him and we can hitch a ride out of here.”  
  
“I’m not sure she’ll give us a ride after we mostly murder him,” Keith says.   
  
“Nobody is mostly killing anyone,” Shiro says, in a patient voice that has a slight edge to it, which says a lot about how he feels about the situation. “Lance, don’t drink the rain. We have no idea what it’s composed of. You could make yourself sick.”  
  
“C’mon, have a little fun!” Lance says, whipping around to regard the others, eyes sparkling. “This is great! We haven’t seen rain like this since Earth!”  
  
“Lance, it’s _purple,”_ Keith says, exasperated. “There’s no way it’s like Earth’s.”   
  
“Can we just start doing whatever it is we’re gonna do to get out of here?” Hunk interrupts, before the two can start sniping again. “My arm’s getting tired.” He waves the shield arm slightly, sending water droplets spattering everywhere.  
  
“The Castle’s three miles that way,” Shiro says, gesturing to their left. “We may as well start walking.” The rest of the team—sans Lance—grumbles, but they all start to trudge in the direction of the Castle of Lions, stumbling through mud and puddles.  
  
They’re less than a quarter of a mile away from the ship when the rain stops. Naturally.


	10. Pirates!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fools prompts: Shiro + Pirates! (Quirky, anime ones)  
> (Crossover with _One Piece_ )

Shiro’s not sure exactly how he got here or what the hell happened. One minute he’s fighting Zarkon’s mech suit and in Voltron with the rest of the team, and then suddenly he’s standing on an island on a planet _somewhere_ and he’s not sure how that even happened. He can only assume he’s in another reality entirely, and he’s really starting to regret ignoring Slav’s lectures on alternate worlds.  
  
He’s sure he’s in another reality because the rules of his own just don’t seem to apply here. Most of his paladin armor’s equipment has gone haywire, and isn’t working properly. His navigation systems are completely out of whack and he can’t seem to scan for a basic map of the planet he’s on. He’s witnessed about six different weather systems in the twenty four hours he’s been here. Worst of all, his Galra arm isn’t functioning properly; it’s like the energy and technology it uses to run just isn’t supported here, for some reason.  
  
It shouldn’t be so bad, really. The island he’d appeared on is inhabited, and mostly by humans, even, although he doesn’t think he’s only any sort of Earth. When he asks, they tell him he’s on something called the ‘Grand Line,’ but they can’t give more specifics than that. Nobody seems to have even a paper map of the world he’s on. It doesn’t sound like the full world has even _been_ recorded yet, which he finds frankly baffling, considering some of the technology he’s seen here.  
  
And weirder still is the culture. Not so much the buildings or the foods. There’s weird stuff here, sure, but Shiro’s used to seeing all kinds of strange things since the day he was captured on Kerberos. No, the weird part is that the fences and buildings all over are simply _plastered_ with wanted posters of pirates. There’s literally hundreds of posters out there, all with “Dead or Alive” bounties and photographs of the people in question, some of whom are quite strange looking (and some of whom he’s positive aren’t even human). And the weirdest part of all is that nobody seems particularly alarmed with the plethora of pirates apparently roaming the seas. When he asks, most people just treat them like celebrities.  
  
This world really just makes no sense at _all._  
  
But for all that, and for all he’s been through, Shiro knows better than to believe in coincidences. So when he’s searching for some way, _any_ way, to get his arm back up and running again, and to find the technological experts to help him find a way back to _his_ reality, and the most advanced ship he can find comes with a massive Lion figurehead?  
  
Well. Pirate flag or no, he’s pretty sure that’s a sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, I've also answered a lot of headcanon questions about how Team Voltron might interact with the Strawhat Pirates. You can check them out here:  
> http://velkynkarma.tumblr.com/post/159141466723/maychorian-velkynkarma-maychorian-replied-to  
> http://velkynkarma.tumblr.com/post/160631209393/hey-velkynkarma-i-just-read-that-post-you-made  
> http://velkynkarma.tumblr.com/post/163395249903/ive-just-read-your-cool-one-piecevoltron-posts


	11. Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fools prompts: Pidge & any other paladin being a protective big brother  
> (Ended up being Pidge and Lance)

_“Pidge!”_ Lance screams, as he watches the Green Lion smash into the ground hard enough to gouge a smoking crater into the earth.   
  
He pilots the Blue Lion to swerve aside as another of the swarming robots fires a shot at him, and desperately keys up a visual feed to the Green Lion—or tries to. Blue rumbles when the Green Lion doesn’t respond, and Pidge is silent over the line.  
  
“We need to get her out of there, now!” Shiro barks. “Pidge, answer if you can—“  
  
“Head’s up!” Keith yells. “It’s coming around for another pass!”   
  
Lance sees the Red Lion dart past his visuals and charge for a third of the swarming bots. They’re not quite Robeasts, and they remind Lance of the cube thing back with the Olkari when they’d accidentally cut it up into pieces. Voltron had been ineffective because there were just too many of the things, but when they’d split up the swarming bots had taken advantage of it and hit the Green Lion point blank.   
  
Lance twists to bring the Blue Lion around long enough to fire off the freeze ray. He coats the nearest swarmer in a solid sheet of ice, but it doesn’t hold for long. The sheet shatters, and the thing completely ignores him, aiming for the Green Lion instead.  
  
“No no no! Pidge, wake up! Move!” Lance yells, frantic. There’s no answer, and he pushes Blue for all the speed she can manage, burning thrusters at full capacity, hoping it will be enough. Nobody else is close enough to help, and there’s no way he’s letting Pidge take another beating like that. Already, he’s not sure what kind of condition she’s in, or if she even _can_ take another hit like that…  
  
The swarmer finishes charging just as Lance hits the smoking crater. His Lion can’t quite match the Black Lion’s size, and he doesn’t have the time to drag the Green Lion out of the way. His weapons are already useless against the thing. So instead, he and Blue crouch protectively over the collapsed Green Lion. Blue hunches her head in as close as possible, baring the thicker shoulder and back armor to take the hit, and digs her claws in deep into the dirt for stability.   
  
And they take the full force of the blast.   
  
Lance grits his teeth as the shockwave hits, and digs his fingers into the controls as he sways alarmingly in the cockpit. But he doesn’t move, and he can feel Blue’s mind feeding off his own determination to protect Pidge, using it to stay sturdy, stay strong. Blue’s not built to take hits, not like Yellow is, but it is still her job to support, and being a leg of Voltron is all about endurance. If they can just outlast it, just _hold_ long enough for the others to get there—  
  
The thing keeps blasting, a long, continuous stream of energy. Within ten seconds the cabin’s lighting shifts to the emergency red and begins to flash, and popups start to surround him on the holoscreens, screeching about damage. He sets his jaw as he can _feel_ the pain of the attack start to bleed through from Blue, and digs his fingers tighter into the controls. “C’mon, Beautiful,” he manages to gasp out, through the phantom sensation of pain in a body that’s not his at all, “C’mon, c’mon, we’ve got this, we can do this, we’re not letting our friends down, we’ve gotta just hold on to save Pidge and Green, we’ve _got_ this—“  
  
Because he’s not budging. He’s _not._ Not if Pidge is in danger. Not when she’s practically his little sister, not after every time she’s saved _his_ life, not after everything they’ve survived already.   
  
And Blue draws from his determination, and lets out a low growl of agreement, and holds. Just a little longer.  
  
The emergency notifications are screaming at an even higher pitch when the force of the continuous blast suddenly cuts off. Blue raises her head weakly to give Lance visuals, and he’s relieved to see Hunk and the Yellow Lion head-butting the swarmer out of the way, sending the blast wildly off in the wrong direction.   
  
“Lance, get Pidge out of there _now_ ,” Shiro orders, as the Black Lion roars past, jaw blade materializing. “We’ll take care of these things.”  
  
“On it!” Lance acknowledges. He’s not so sure about leaving Shiro, Keith and Hunk to mop these things up, but he’s not sure how much help he and Blue will be with all the damage readouts he’s got everywhere. And _Pidge_ …they still don’t know what condition she’s in. It’s better for them to get out of there and not make a helpless target. Shiro’s call is the right one.  
  
Blue steps back carefully, and lowers her head, fitting her jaw-hatch around the Green Lion’s exposed neck. It’s a little difficult to lift the Green Lion—the Black Lion is the only one that can really maneuver any of them easily. But Lance burns all the thrusters at full capacity again, and Blue is able to awkwardly heft the limp Green Lion in her jaws and then into the air. Hunk and the Yellow Lion remain between them and the swarmers, and Lance is able to make his escape back to the Castle.   
  
Blue deposits the Green Lion in her own hangar, and Lance is already leaping out of her jaws and kicking on his jetpack for counterbalance as he aims for the Green Lion’s head. His own paladin suit has emergency counters to open the Green Lion’s hatch, and he’s in the Green Lion’s cabin in a matter of seconds, crouching next to the pilot’s seat.  
  
Pidge is flopped over in it awkwardly, almost falling out of the seat. There’s a trickle of blood running out under the visor of her helmet and smudging on her face, and she’s so _still_. Lance panics for a moment, but then shakes his head to get back on track, and presses two fingers to the pulse point just under her jawline. There’s still a heartbeat, and he’s pretty sure she’s breathing. Thank goodness.  
  
“Pidge?” he asks. No answer. “Pidge, c’mon, you’re scaring me.” Still nothing.   
  
Okay, no. He doesn’t have time for this. She needs a cryo-pod, _clearly._ He feels carefully at her neck, but he doesn’t think anything’s broken. So he slides his arms beneath her knees and around her shoulders, hefting her up. Pidge doesn’t weigh much of anything, and it’s easy to lift her, even in the armor.   
  
It’s when he starts to move that Pidge stirs briefly. her head rolls against his shoulder, and she moans pitifully, blinking her eyes open before squeezing them shut again almost instantly. “Wh…what?”  
  
“Pidge! Thank goodness you’re awake,” Lance says, trying to sound as confident as he can, and mostly failing to hide his relief or the shake in his voice.  
  
“L…lance? I don’t…what…?”  
  
“Woah woah woah!” Lance says, as Pidge squirms a little in his arms. “Easy, Pidge! I gotcha. We’re in the Castle.”   
  
“….robots…?”  
  
“Shiro’s got it taken care of,” Lance says, and this time he thinks he manages to sound more confident then he feels. “Your job is to just get better, and I’ll help. Okay? Let’s get you to a cryo-pod.”  
  
“I…” Pidge seems confused—concussion, almost certainly—but after a moment she stops squirming and settles. “Th…thanks…”   
  
“No problem,” Lance says. “I’ve got you. Just take it easy.”   
  
Pidge goes limp, and Lance picks up the pace, hurrying for the infirmary. But they’re back, and they’re safe. Everything’s going to be all right.   
  
That, he is sure of.


	12. Cornered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday Bash prompts: Keith and Lance, Keith takes one for the team and Lance gets protective

“Are you in position?” Shiro asks over the comms. Lance can’t see him from from their position yet, but he knows they’re waiting far below for the signal.  
  
“As good a position as I’m gonna get,” Lance says.  
  
“It’s too exposed,” Keith mutters. He’s crouched beside Lance up on the high catwalk, sword at the ready, although at this moment there’s not much to use it on. They’d snuck up without incident, despite Keith’s tendency to attack anything that moves (and some things that don’t). No one knows they’re here, because Lance actually knows how to do the whole ‘stealth’ thing properly. Honestly, why did Shiro even bother sending Keith with him again?  
  
“Anywhere else and I can’t cover the others when they actually get to work,” Lance counters. “It has to be here. I can hit anything from this point.”  
  
“We’ll be sitting ducks,” Keith argues. “As soon as the firing starts they’ll know we’re up here, and there’s only one exit. Which they’ll be using.”   
  
“That’s why you’re there too, Keith,” Shiro says, with a lot more patience than Lance thinks is fair, really. “You’re covering Lance while he’s covering us. Lance has the advantage of range—the Galra will try to remove that by getting too close for his sniping to be effective to take out the threat he represents.”  
  
Lance bristles a little at the implication that he can’t handle himself in a close-combat fight. Okay, so Keith’s got a sword, and spends a whole bunch of his time punching things up close, and Lance doesn’t—so what? Lance doesn’t need _babysitting._ He could do this just fine. He doesn’t need _Keith_ sitting there waiting to save his ass.   
  
Keith sighs. “I don’t like it,” he says. “Something about this doesn’t feel right.”  
  
Lance snorts. At least they’re agreed on _that._   
  
“We don’t have a choice,” Shiro answers over the comms. “We’ve got a time limit. If we can’t disable that particle barrier in the next ten doboshes, there’s no way we’ll be able to destroy those fighters before they get in the air and start harassing these citizens. It’s now or never. Are you ready?”  
  
Keith sets his jaw for a moment, and then says, “Yes.”  
  
“Hey, _I’m_ the critical piece here,” Lance snaps. To Shiro, he adds, “I’m good to go,” and summons his bayard, settling it against his shoulder. “Your guardian angel’s waiting, guys.”  
  
Keith’s eyes narrow slightly in irritation, but he doesn’t argue. Instead he turns away, back to Lance, and keeps an eye on the doorway to the catwalk.   
  
“Alright,” Shiro says. “Ready? _Go!”_   
  
There’s movement down in the wide open room below as Shiro bursts into view, followed by Pidge and Hunk. They all make a beeline for the massive pylon in the center of the room, which hums loudly. This, according to Pidge and Hunk, is the center of power for the massive particle barrier covering the facility they’ve managed to sneak into. Take it down, and the Galra’s defenses drop, and Allura can wreak havoc with the Castle of Lions and the other races of the Voltron Alliance waiting outside. The three of them don’t waste time on their part of the mission—Hunk and Pidge immediately get to work on the complicated process of messing with the barrier, while Shiro takes up a defensive position in front of them, arm raised and ready.  
  
But the Galra won’t make it so easy as that. As soon as Pidge and Hunk get to work, alarms start blaring, and within moments soldiers and sentries start filtering in, weapons at the ready.   
  
And that’s where Lance comes in. He grins as he sights his first target down the barrel, a sentry raising its own firearm towards Hunk. “Not on my watch,” he mutters, and fires.  
  
The sentry bursts in an array of sparks. Before it even hits the ground Lance turns on his next target, another ranged sentry, and that one bursts in a flash of blue as he fires again. Then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. He’s firing almost as fast as he can sight, concentrating on any targets below that have the ability to hit his friends from far away. Shiro’s able to handle the remainder in close combat with ease, but Lance backs him up whenever he has a spare tick to keep the press of attackers from overwhelming them.  
  
Lance takes down dozens, and Shiro collects his own sizable pile of scrap metal in front of him, but it’s like there’s no _end_ to these guys. Lance is constantly readjusting, constantly firing. Then he hears the banging noise to his right, and feels the tremble of the catwalk faintly beneath him.   
  
“Company,” Keith mutters behind him. “They found us. Keep it up, I’ll take care of them.”  
  
Sort of the plan to begin with, but Lance is concentrating too hard on his task to make a snappy comeback. “Got it,” he says instead, as he hears Keith stand and rush towards the nearby door. There’s a clang of metal and a wet sounding _thud,_ and the whole catwalk shakes.  
  
Annoying, that. Lance hastily readjusts his aim before firing again before the fight on the catwalk shakes it up so much it ruins his shots. He’s had a lot of practice sniping while in motion, at least, and adjust the angle instinctively. Ignoring the fight to his left is a little harder; the grunts and thuds of combat are loud and close, and once he feels the _woosh_ of air on his face from what is definitely _way_ too close. But nobody actually hits him, and he’s able to keep focusing on the swarm below.   
  
Okay. Well, he admits grudgingly, maybe Shiro was a _little_ right about sending Keith with him. It’s not like he needs _babysitting_ or anything, but, well, this is kind of useful. It lets him focus on his job without worrying about his life.  
  
The swarm finally starts to slow down six doboshes later, and Hunk is able to withdraw from the machine to help Shiro with the fight, mowing down sentries with his own high-powered bayard. A massive Galra officer has arrived, though—the final boss in this mission, Lance thinks—and he looks _pissed._ One of his arms is solid metal and he’s at least half again Shiro’s height, towering over the team on the ground. Lance decides his shots are best spent helping with _that_ guy, and he levels his rifle bayard at the opponent.  
  
“Lance! Look out!”  
  
“Almost,” he mutters, lining up the shot. This guy is tricky; he’s so well armored there’s only so many places he can try to hit. “Just a…sec—“  
  
 _“Lance!”_   
  
Something hits him hard from the side at the exact moment he takes the shot. He yelps when he’s bowled over sideways, and the blast from his bayard flies painfully wide. The edges of his cuirass dig painfully into his side as he’s slammed into the metal grating of the catwalk, and something heavy presses him down.   
  
For a moment the movement dizzies him, but then he blinks and shakes his head as he recovers his wits. “What the hell?” he grouses. “Damn it, Keith! You’re supposed to keep them off me—I lost my shot!” He tries to push himself up—from this angle he can’t see the fight below that well, and he’s not sure if they’re still in trouble. Maybe if he hurries he can still back Shiro and Hunk up against that monster.  
  
But the heavy weight holding him down doesn’t leave. Lance has to actively shove it off, and wonders what the hell hit him. It’s too organic to be a sentry, and—  
  
—and he feels wetness on his fingers, even through the gloves, at the same time he catches sight of the red, white and black of the paladin armor now sprawled next to him.   
  
_Oh._  
  
 _“Keith!”_ Lance hisses, wide eyed. “Keith, you’re—bleeding, oh geez—“   
   
Keith doesn’t look good. Even flopped on his side where Lance had shoved him, the awful wound in his back and side is still painfully visible. It looks like some sort of blast from a Galra firearm, and the edges of the wound are partially cauterized. But the rest of it bleeds sluggishly and there’s still so much of it and—  
  
 _—wait. Wound from a firearm?_  
  
Lance’s eyes widen, and he snaps up his shield barely in time, leaning forward to crouch over Keith to protect him as well. The blasts smash into the shield in a flurry of sparks, and Lance grunts at the pressure on his arm.   
  
The Galra soldier firing approaches on the catwalk, laying down a thick barrage of fire as he paces closer. There’s a nasty-looking wound in one arm and another cracking the armor of his leg, both clearly courtesy of Keith’s bayard. But even so, he limps steadily forward, eyes narrowed and hate in his expression.  
  
Lance winces as another shot hits the shield, and glances down at Keith again. Keith’s in a bad way. He looks dazed—not quite unconscious, but clearly in pain. The wound is positioned in such a way that he could only have taken it when turned away from his opponent, but Keith never ran from _anyone._ Even with his shield broken—and a quick glance at the shattered wrist mount indicates it’s _very_ broken—Keith should have charged right in.   
  
Unless…unless Keith had deliberately taken that hit _for_ him.  
  
“You _idiot,_ ” Lance hisses in a panic, adjusting the shield again. “You stupid…don’t you dare die!”  
  
Keith doesn’t respond, but it hardly matters. He definitely _will_ die if that soldier gets close enough. Lance’s shield is already starting to flicker alarmingly from the number of shots it’s taken, and Keith’s bleeding out and can’t even move.   
  
Running’s not an option; Keith will die for sure. But he can’t use his bayard and keep the shield up at the same time. The others are below in the middle of their own battle—there’s no rescue coming. What the hell is he supposed to do?   
  
_You’re the one who insisted you could do this without Keith,_ he tells himself harshly. _How about you prove it for once in your life?_   
  
Lance sets his jaw. He’s still scared as hell, but now he’s determined, too. Nobody’s dying on his watch. “Hang on, man,” he tells Keith, although he’s not sure the other can even hear him. “One sec and we’ll get you out of here.”  
  
He’ll just have to time this really, _really_ perfectly.  
  
The soldier fires. It its Lance’s shield, and shatters his last defense in a final burst of smoke and sparks. Already, the soldier is pulling the trigger again—but in the split second in between, Lance raises his own rifle and fires, blasting the firearm out of his opponent’s hands.   
  
The soldier howls in pain when the gun is ripped from his claws, but recovers quickly, and immediately lunges. Lance is already moving, ducking away from Keith to lead the fight away from him, and fires again. The blast takes the Galra in the shoulder, but then he’s too close. He lashes out angrily with his claws, scoring a deep gash into Lance’s armor.   
  
Lance panics, and immediately tries to backpedal. He lashes out with his bayard like a club as he tries to put a little distance between him and the enemy, and it catches the Galra on the side of the head. The opponent isn’t stunned, but he does stumble sideways—into the railing of the catwalk, and straight over it.   
  
The room is full of noise from the battle and the blaring alarms, but Lance swears he’s going to hear that final scream and the awful, sickening _crunch_ far below until his dying day.   
  
He’s trembling as he stares at the empty space where the Galra soldier had been, but then he shakes his head. _Keith. Focus._ The bayard disappears into its thigh holster as he hastily dives for Keith again, pressing his hands over the wound in the red paladin’s side to try and stem the bleeding. “Keith! Keith, hang on, man. You hear me? Stay awake.”  
  
Keith doesn’t answer, exactly, but he does groan a little, and curl tighter into a ball, as though trying to stem the pain. Lance moves a hand to Keith’s shoulder to try and hold him still. “Stop that. Stop moving. Just…hang on.”  
  
“Lance?” Keith slurs. “What…?”  
  
“Oh thank God,” Lance says, relieved. “At least you’re talking. Kind of.” The feel of blood soaking his gloves is awful. He scowls. “The hell did you do that for?”  
  
“Do…?”  
“You got shot! On purpose!”  
  
Keith blinks dazedly. After a moment he seems to remember, and mutters, “Gonna kill you.”  
  
“You could’ve died _instead!”_  
  
“Didn’t,” Keith mutters. His eyes slide closed.  
  
“Oh no, no no no you don’t,” Lance hisses, half furious and half terrified. “Awake, stay awake, damn it—“   
  
But Keith doesn’t listen—because he’s a stubborn, contrary ass like that. Lance can feel his hands shaking as he presses harder on the wound to try and stem the bleeding better, but even _that_ doesn’t get a reaction out of Keith, and that’s when he _really_ starts to get scared.  
  
“—ce, what’s going on? _Lance!_ Report, now!”  
  
Lance suddenly realizes there’s been yelling going on in his ear for quite some time now, and he’s been tuning it out. “Sorry, Shiro,” he rasps. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to drop cover, I—Keith got shot, I had to—I don’t know—“  
  
 _“Lance.”_ Shiro’s voice is firm, and Lance cuts himself off mid-ramble. “You’re fine. Calm down. We’re done down here, we need to get out. Can Keith move? Can you help him get down here?”  
  
“No, he’s out c—“ Lance freezes when he hears more voices from the door. “Oh, crap. There’s more coming. I can’t take on that many more guys! I barely took out the one and Keith is _bleeding_ —“  
  
 _“Lance.”_ He shuts up again. _“Calm down._ Breathe. Can you jump? Fly both of you down? Hunk will cover you.”   
  
“I…I think…yes.” Lance takes a deep breath. “I think…no, I _can_. But he’s bleeding bad, it’s gonna hurt him.”  
  
“Just get him down here. That’s all we need, and we’ll get him out of here safely.”   
  
Lance nods, and glances down at Keith. “Sorry, man…this is gonna hurt. A lot, probably,” he mutters under his breath. Removing his hands from blocking the wound feels wrong, but he doesn’t have much of a choice as he loops one of Keith’s arms over his shoulders, and hooks the other around his non-injured side.  
  
He leaps off the railing just as the other soldiers burst out the door, and kicks on the jetpack. Keith is all dead weight, and the jetpack struggles to support both of them, but it slows them enough that they don’t meet the same end as that first soldier. The other Galra soldiers try to lean over the railing to fire while they’re helpless in midair, but Hunk’s energy cannon chews up the catwalk near them and keeps them thoroughly distracted.  
  
Lance stumbles awkwardly as he finally lands, and Keith almost immediately starts to sink from his shoulders, dripping blood alarmingly. Shiro is there in an instant, and Pidge on the other side. They help steady Lance, and Shiro lifts Keith away from him, supporting the red paladin more easily in his arms. Lance feels a little sick at the sight of so much red staining his and Shiro’s white armor in just a few moments, and at the sticky feel still on his gloves, but he made it. Things are gonna be okay. They got to Shiro, they finished the mission, they’re gonna go and get Keith medical help immediately.  
  
“Let’s get out of here,” Shiro orders, as if he can hear Lance’s thoughts.  
  
Lance nods shakily, but his hands are surprisingly steady as he summons his bayard again, and takes the point position ahead of Shiro and his unconscious burden. They’ll get Keith out of here. He’ll make sure of it himself if he has to. 


	13. Old But Awesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday Bash Prompts: Coran appreciation. (With some Lance).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to do 3 Lance prompts in a row. Whoops.

The Castle of Lions is under attack.  
  
Lance still has no idea how the Galra even got _on_ the ship. They’re in the middle of space, and they left the last Galra-occupied planet two quintents ago. Galra never seem to excel when it comes to patience; Lance doubts they could have been stowaways for that long. How’d they even get _in?_   
  
Well, he admits to himself, as he runs down one of the hallways with bayard in hand, that’s probably not as weird a question. Ulaz had gotten in too easily enough back at the xanthorium cluster. And Sendak had just walked right in, from what he hears. Maybe it’s just a Galra thing, getting through locked doors. Hell, even _Keith’s_ done it.  
  
Thinking of the red paladin makes Lance wince. He has no idea where the rest of the team is. The Galra had attacked all of a sudden all over the ship, while everyone had been split up and enjoying some much-needed downtime. Lance had been just coming back from a swim in the pool—he wasn’t anywhere near the ziplines or the Blue Lion’s hangar, which meant he didn’t have his armor. Hell, he only had his bayard on him because Allura had drilled it into all their heads to have it on them at all times, and he’d taken to habitually stuffing it in one of his jacket pockets.   
  
He’s lucky he’s armed, at least, but he has no idea where the backup is. Keith might be in the training deck, and if he’s lucky Shiro’s sparring with him, but that’s six floors and lots of Galra soldiers and sentries away. He can guess Pidge might be in the Green Lion’s hangar, but the Green Lion can’t help much in a Castle invasion, and that’s a long way down besides. Hunk might be in the kitchen, but that’s five floors in the other direction. And he has no idea where Coran or Allura could have been when the attack struck; they disappear into distant halls and floors of the Castle all the time. He doesn’t even know where the mice might be, to act as guides.  
  
 _Just gotta stay safe and regroup with somebody,_ Lance tells himself. _Stay alive and try to get to the others to help._   
  
Easier said than done, though. There’s Galra _everywhere_ —not just the robotic sentries either, but a bunch of actual flesh and blood soldiers. Many of them are armed with swords, or their own blasters, and they usually travel in groups. Lance has got the home team advantage and sort of knows the terrain better than the enemy does, but the Castle is still _huge_ and he could just as easily get lost in parts of it.  
  
Still, he does what he can, ducking into rooms to hide, and firing his bayard to take down groups two or three if he has the element of surprise. He doesn’t want to do anything too risky, though, not when he’s not armored. In the blue paladin’s uniform he can take a bit of a beating, and he has his energy shield if things get hairy. In his jacket, jeans and sneakers, all he’s got is his aim and his own wits.   
  
He makes for the kitchen. Of all the places he might find one of his friends, that’s the closest, and even if Hunk’s not there, it’s a decent hub for movement. Maybe somebody else will be heading there, or maybe he can sneak through and get to another likely location.   
  
But Lance realizes when he reaches the doorway to the dining hall that maybe he’s made a mistake. He’ll need to go through it to get to the kitchen and the other hallways beyond, but the dining hall is _big_. It’s big, and it’s open, without very many places to hide. He’ll be very visible the moment he steps in there, and there’s no turning back.  
  
Lance bites his lip, and glances over to one side of the dining room. He can see one of the panels leading to the ducts and wiring in there, and grumbles to himself. Pidge is probably already squirreling through them to sneak ninja-style wherever she needs to go, but she’s small enough to actually manage it. Lance could probably squeeze himself into one, but it’d be a bit tight, and he wouldn’t be able to use his bayard well if he needed it. And that harrowing drop from the elevator shaft _still_ gives him chills.  
  
He sighs. _Just do it,_ he coaches himself. _Just run in. Run across, get to the kitchens, check for Hunk, regroup if you can, and move on. Go!_   
  
He glances around the room one last time—still thankfully empty—and bolts.  
  
He makes it about halfway across the room when the shooting starts. The first blast gets close enough to put a quarter-sized hole in his hoodie, and he yelps in alarm. Without armor, those things can kill him pretty much instantly if they get a lucky shot in. He dives beneath the dining room table, in between a pair of high-backed Altean dining chairs, and awkwardly squirms around to take stock of his attackers.  
  
There’s three sentries by one of the entrances. All three have blasters in their hands, all of which are leveled at the table. They stop closer even as they fire, and several of the blasts chew holes in the table’s edges and in the surrounding chairs.  
  
 _Coran’s gonna kill me,_ Lance groans at the damage. _If I live that long._   
  
Beneath the table is not really the most ideal place to shoot from—there’s not much cover, and it’s a weird angle to shoot at. The alternative is dying, though, so Lance scoots forward enough to return fire, and blasts the hell out of the three sentries. He’s grazed by another shot, but he manages to take down the three robots before they can get near him.   
  
“That’s what you get,” he crows, a little shakily—but a victory’s a victory. He glances a little mournfully at his torn jacket sleeve, though. He’ll have to see if Coran has anything to mend it with later. He _likes_ this jacket.  
  
“ _There’s_ the rat!”  
  
There’s an awful crashing noise as the entire _table_ is uprooted from the ground and smashed over on its side, exposing Lance to open air. Lance yelps in alarm, but before he can so much as try to make a break for it, a clawed hand snags around his ankle and whips him free from between the chairs.   
  
Lance screeches in surprise and fear as he’s dragged back forcibly and thrown through the air. There’s a sharp pain in his lower leg, and he hears the ripping of cloth. Then he grunts as, with a dull thud, he hits the floor and rolls, gradually skidding to a stop. There’s a clattering noise nearby, and Lance manages to blink his vision back into focus to see his bayard—back to handheld form, at least ten feet away from him.  
  
Oh. Oh, _crap,_ that’s not good.  
  
Lance scrambles to get to his feet, but winces when his right foot won’t quite take his weight. There’s a sharp pain, and when he glances down his shoe and the bottom of his jeans are all bloody from what appears to be a set of claw marks.   
  
Oh, that’s _really_ not good.  
  
“Pathetic,” the same voice from before growls. Lance glances up in alarm, and spies his assailants—two flesh and blood Galra soldiers, getting ever closer. One looks like a standard soldier in uniform, but the other is one of those Galra officers that’s built like a damn _tank_ , too tall to be fair and made entirely out of muscle. One of his clawed hands drips red, and Lance winces as his leg seems to throb in response.   
  
“They aren’t so strong when they don’t have their precious armor and their precious _Lions_ , are they?” the massive Galra adds, getting closer. “I can break this one’s neck with one _hand._ ”   
  
Lance swallows. The Galra are too close for comfort, and he tries crab-walking backwards his bayard. Maybe, if he can just—  
  
But the Galra officer snorts contemptuously, and kicks the bayard handle away into a corner. “Can’t you even fight on your own?” he sneers.   
  
_Not with you cheating like this!_ Lance wants to screech, but his heart his beating so hard in his throat that he can barely breathe, let alone speak. He tries backing away from the Galra in the other direction, dragging his bad leg, and his back bumps into the wall.  
  
 _I’m dead,_ Lance realizes, with a stunned sort of horror. _Oh God, I’m so dead. The others are gonna find me dead in the dining room and—Oh God, Oh God—_  
  
That’s when he spots a sudden rush of movement behind the two Galra soldiers as someone comes bursting out of one of the side doors, and straight for them.  
  
For a second he thinks maybe it’s one of the other paladins. But the blur of movement is too blue, and he realizes with a jolt of newfound horror that it’s _Coran._ It’s Coran, and he’s heading straight for the giant Galra, a furious expression on his face and what looks like a broomstick in one hand.  
  
 _Oh no no no,_ Lance thinks, horrified. He appreciates Coran’s loyalty, but he’s going to _die._ That Galra brute is huge, and Coran’s…Coran’s _old,_ even by Altean standards. Hunk told Lance about how Coran had hurt his back when they were trying to help save him on the Balmera. And Allura said only older Alteans got the slipperies, for crying out loud! There’s no way Coran can take on a couple of Galra soldiers on his own, and Lance doesn’t have a weapon or mobility to help.  
  
But there’s nothing Lance can do. In the split second he has he tries to think of a solution, but he’s got nothing. If he calls out or tries to warn Coran away at all, the Galra soldiers are going to notice him, and then Coran is dead for sure. If he even indicates that he’s _noticed_ Coran, he’ll be dead for sure. All he can do is watch with a helpless sense of dread as Coran darts in closer.  
  
 _Oh God, Coran’s gonna die because of me, and they’re gonna find us_ both _dead in the dining room. I’m so sorry guys—Allura—I’m so—_  
  
Coran interrupts his horrified thoughts with a war-cry. “Get away from that paladin!” he snaps—and Lance freezes, because he’s _never_ heard Coran sound _that_ angry and that _scary_ before.  
  
And then Coran strikes.  
  
He swings out with the broom with a shocking degree of speed. It’s not a wild swing like a bat—Lance recognizes the form as one Allura’s used before with her stave, a precise, trained move. It hits the massive Galra right in the stomach, just beneath the plating of his armor, with a heavy _thwack._ The officer’s arrogance vanishes almost immediately as he doubles over with a loud _whoof_ , caught by surprise and absolutely winded.   
  
Coran doesn’t waste a second. With another surprisingly nimble movement, he swings the makeshift stave and twists it about to come crashing down _hard_ on the back of the big Galra’s neck, just at the base of his head. The broomstick shatters in a burst of metallic splinters, but the Galra collapses in an undignified heap to the ground, face driven into the floor and ass still sticking up in the air from where he’d dropped to his knees.   
  
Even then, the Galra groans slightly, not quite down for the count. But Coran cracks him in the head again with a precise and efficient kick, leaping forward surprisingly fast to do so. The officer grunts once, and finally goes still, unconscious.   
  
The entire take down had taken approximately five ticks, and the Galra hadn’t even known what hit him.  
  
The second, smaller Galra solider yelps in alarm and scrambles for his sword strapped to his hip. “Look out!” Lance yells—or starts to. Coran is already on it, and even disarmed, he doesn’t seem worried. He closes the five feet astonishingly fast, jabbing out with a precise, flat palm and fingers. The first strike hits the soldier in the arm hard enough to disarm him, and the second comes rapid-fire after the first, dropping the Galra’s arm uselessly to his side like it’s dislocated. Three-four-five come one after another hard enough to stun the Galra into submission, and holy _crap,_ is that the move he’d threatened to use on Lance when he first got out of his cryo-pod? Lance can already feel his own arms and torso tingling in painful sympathy.   
  
The Galra staggers backwards, stunned and doubled forward. The soldier would normally have the advantage of height and weight, but he’s given it up inadvertently, and Coran pounces. With the Galra’s head closer to his level, Coran wastes no time wrapping one arm around his opponent’s neck, and twisting his other arm around into a holding position. The Galra struggles weakly in surprise, but he’s still stunned from Coran’s other blows, and can’t seem to free himself. And Lance can’t help but count as— _one, two, three_ —the Galra suddenly groans and goes completely limp in Coran’s hold. Coran finally lets go, and the Galra slumps bonelessly to the ground.  
  
 _Sleepy-time._   
  
And holy _crow_ , Lance can only stare, jaw dropped and eyes wide open, because—had Coran really, _really_ done that? He’d just taken two Galra soldiers out like it was nothing! Coran is…Coran is _crazy strong!_   
  
Coran groans, and presses both hands to the small of his back, doubling forward a little. “Oh dear,” he mutters. “The ol’ back isn’t what it used to be. I’ve certainly had better days…”   
  
He stretches back carefully, arching his back in the other direction, and there’s a revolting series of cracking noises. Lance winces in disgust, but Coran breathes a sigh of relief. “Ah, _much_ better. Do need to watch that.”  
  
Okay, so that had been a little… _less_ crazy strong, but Lance had just seen him effortlessly wipe the floor with two Galra soldiers, so. He supposes Coran still gets a pass. Even if he is still the same weird kooky uncle figure he’s always been, and hasn’t just been _pretending_ before going all crouching tiger hidden dragon. Actually, it’s sort of reassuring to know it’s still the same guy that makes them terrible inedible lunches and tells boring stories about cleaning cryo-pods.  
  
“All right, Lance?” Coran asks brightly, glancing briefly in his direction. Lance nods weakly.  
  
Seemingly reassured, Coran goes to retrieve Lance’s bayard for him from the corner, as though nothing out of the ordinary has just happened, and continues, “We’ve been wondering where you were. I managed to get in touch with most of the others with the network, but we couldn’t find you. I’ve got a rendezvous point for us if we can just—Lance? What are you staring like that for? Have I got something stuck in my mustache again?” He pauses to brush at his mustache self-consciously.  
  
“Uh, no,” Lance says, shaking his head with a blink. “It’s just—“  
  
“Ah, your poor delicate human brain must have taken more damage beyond its capacity to handle,” Coran says, looking concerned now. He presses Lance’s bayard back into his hands, and crouches next to him on the floor. “We’ll have to see if we can get rid of these interlopers immediately so we can free up the cryo-pods.” For a moment Lance sees a flash of anger drift across Coran’s expression, and realizes he’s _furious_ that any of his own have been injured.  
  
“No, no, my head’s fine,” he reassures hastily. “It’s just—how did you _do_ that? That was amazing! You’re a total badass, Coran!”  
  
Coran blinks at him, anger and worry vanishing to be replaced by a look of sheer bewilderment. After a moment, he says, “I’m not entirely sure what my rear end or its moral capacity has to do with anything, and that seems _highly_ inappropriate, Lance.”  
  
“What—no! It means you kicked lots of butt and were totally _awesome_ —“  
  
“Awesome?”  
  
“I…never mind.” Lance sighs. At this point, when he tells this story, no one _else_ is going to believe him. He already doesn’t believe _himself._   
  
“You must’ve been hit harder than you thought,” Coran says, reaching out to gently probe at Lance’s skull, searching expertly but carefully for signs of fracture or other damage. “You’re speaking nonsense! We’ll have to find somewhere safe to leave you while we retake the Castle—“  
  
Lance bats his hand away. “Coran! I’m fine. I’m totally fine. I didn’t even hit my head, although I don’t think I’m walking anywhere,” he says, glancing at his leg and wincing a little when it throbs. “Sorry about the blood stains on the floor, by the way.”  
  
“Never you mind _that,_ ” Coran says seriously. “I’ll clean a hundred stains without help on hands and knees with a _skerzgit_ brush as long as it means those important to me are safe.” He pats Lance on the head once—this time in a more friendly, less medic-y way. “Let’s get you on your feet, shall we? This area should mostly be clear, but keep that bayard at the ready, just in case.”  
  
Coran slings Lance’s left arm across his shoulders and hauls him upright. Lance winces a little as his leg throbs again, but with Coran’s help he can more or less keep pressure off of it. Lance forms his bayard with his free hand as ordered, and keeps it by his side until the moment at which they might need it.  
  
“Okay,” he says. “I’m ready. Let’s go. Oh, but Coran…?” Coran hums in answer as they take their first step forward, and Lance says, “Thanks. And…man, that was really great. I didn’t even know you could do that, but you saved my life.”  
  
Coran snorts. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I demonstrated all those moves before! And if I hadn’t had a case of the ol’ sleep-chamber knees you might have been acquainted with them _personally._ I was quite a warrior in my prime, you know! Er, not that I’m _not_ in my prime how, that is…”  
  
Lance is pretty sure no one else is _ever_ going to believe his story, except maybe Allura. But the fury in Coran’s eyes and the skill in his movements had been all too real, Lance decides, and he’s pretty sure _he_ believes it after all.


	14. Teamwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday Bash prompts: Keith and Pidge, "I'm okay, you're okay, we're okay."

 Pidge gasps in pain as she dives behind the high stack of metal storage containers and comes down the wrong way on her bad leg. She bites her tongue to keep from yelling and giving away her position, and twists to sit with her back against the container, stretching her bad leg out in front of her. A moment later, Keith comes stumbling in after her, thudding awkwardly against the side of the container with one shoulder and nearly tripping on Pidge as he skids to a stop and crouches down next to her.  
  
There’s a long pause as they take stock of the situation. Pidge can hear the clank of sentries all throughout the storage unit they’re hidden in on the Galra land base, and the occasional _pew-pew_ of their blasters as they fire to try and flush out the enemy. But Pidge thinks she and Keith have a few doboshes at least to catch their breath and figure out a plan.  
  
“Well,” Keith says after a moment, keeping his voice low, “At least it can’t—“  
  
“If you say it can’t get worse,” Pidge interrupts him with a barely contained hiss, “I swear I will punch you so hard you can see again.”  
  
Keith stares, and raises an eyebrow at her a moment later. At least, Pidge thinks that’s what’s happening. The effect is sort of greatly diminished by the fact that he’s staring about a foot to the left of her actual face. “Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”  
  
“Yes—no—ugh, never mind.” On occasion, Pidge forgets that Keith, while a great team mate in a lot of things, is less than savvy when it comes to things like _don’t say it can’t get worse, it always gets worse._ “Haven’t you ever seen a movie?”  
  
“I’ve seen plenty of movies,” Keith says, a touch defensively.   
  
“Then how can you…” A particularly sharp stab of pain races through her broken leg, and she gasps despite herself. “Y’know what, never mind. Not the time,” she manages to grit out through her teeth.   
  
Keith frowns. “How you doing?” he asks. “I saw you get hit before…”  
  
Pidge winces. They’d been on a mission to steal data from the Galra land base they were in. They’d used Shiro’s tried-and-true method of distraction and stealth—Shiro, Lance and Hunk were out wreaking havoc on the rest of the fleet and surface-to-air artillery and drawing attention to themselves, while Pidge had stealthed in with the Green Lion, with Keith for backup. And the first part of the plan had gone well—Keith had gotten them past the biometric locks easy, and it had been a breeze for Pidge to download all the data they were looking for.  
  
Getting out had proven to be a bit of a challenge though, because they’d gotten caught halfway through their escape back to the Green Lion. Even then it hadn’t been going so badly—Keith could mow through sentries when he was so inclined, and Pidge was no slouch in a fight.   
  
Then she’d gone and gotten herself hit by a druid’s spell.   
  
They hadn’t expected the druid to show up; no one had even figured there was a druid _here._ The caster had blinked out of nowhere and blasted at Pidge full on with a lightning bolt, and she’d barely had time to try and throw herself aside. She’d avoided taking the hit directly to her head or torso, but the lightning blast had smashed into her right leg, and it _hurt_. She’d collapsed, and it had taken her a moment to even remember where the hell she was and what she was supposed to be doing through all the pain.  
  
Keith had hit the druid from behind when it charged up another blast to finish off Pidge. The good news was he’d managed to kill it, driving his Marmora blade through the druid’s chest. The bad news was he’d taken a faceful of imploding druid spell when he did. His helm had protected him from the worst of the damage, but he’d stared straight into the intensity of the spell as it burst. And when he’d staggered away from the twisted, burned out pile of robes awkwardly moments later, wide-eyed and unfocused, Pidge had realized he’d been blinded.  
  
Even now, he doesn’t look good. Most of the helm and visor of his paladin armor has been shattered, leaving his head and face exposed, with a clear view of his eyes. His pupils are shrunk down to the size of pinpricks, and his gaze doesn’t track anything, even when she waves her fingers in front of his face. Not to mention the injuries he’s already sustained from the fight prior to that, a host of scrapes, bruises and burns from all the scuffles that he’s covered in.  
  
Not that Pidge is much better. She can see, but her leg is totally busted. She doesn’t even _want_ to look down at it; she already knows it’s gross. The bolt had shattered most of her leg armor and burned through the under armor, leaving everything from the knee down a burned, cracked, sluggishly bleeding mess. It smells like charred meat, and it’s only through sheer force of will that she’s not throwing up.  
  
“Been better,” she admits, trying to downplay it for now. She’s in rough shape, but Keith can’t see that. She does her best to keep the rough edge of pain out of her voice. “You? Any vision coming back?”  
  
“No,” he admits bluntly. “Everything’s dark and fuzzy.” He sounds frustrated, and Pidge doesn’t blame him. She’s seen Keith keep fighting with all manner of injuries, but he’s never had to fight blind before. A busted arm or leg might have worked out better for him than _this._   
  
Pidge really, _really_ hopes the cryo-pods can fix that.   
  
She curses under her breath as the clank of sentries starts to get closer. “We are so screwed,” she hisses. “There’s no way the others can get to us in time, even if we did manage to get a distress signal out.”   
  
There must have been more panic or pain in her voice than she’d intended for, because Keith frowns. “Hey, no,” he says, and flails round a bit awkwardly in front of him, narrowly missing Pidge’s face before he manages to find her shoulder. He squeezes reassuringly when he finally does, and says insistently, “Look, I’m okay, and you’re okay. We’re _both_ okay and neither of us is dead yet. And that means we can figure a way out between us. But you’re the brains here, Pidge—if you can figure out a plan I’ll follow you.”  
  
 _“How?”_ Pidge snaps, more aggressively than intended. “You can’t even _see_ me to follow, and I can’t walk to lead! The only working thing we’ve got between us are arms, and it’s not like we’re Voltron and only need to be the…one…thing…”  
  
Her eyes widen in surprise, and suddenly she has it.  
  
“Pidge?” Keith asks with concern. His hand, still on her shoulder, gives her a little shake.   
  
“I have a really stupid idea,” Pidge tells him solemnly. “It might not even work. It’s pretty ridiculous.”  
  
“It’s already better than what I have, which is nothing,” Keith tells her. “What’s the plan?”  
  
Pidge takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna be your eyes,” she tells him, “and you’re gonna be my legs. We’re gonna Voltron this. Kind of. Two person Voltron.”   
  
Pidge gives Keith credit where it's due: it only takes about five seconds to process it before he says, “Okay, fine. I can’t see what I’m doing—gonna need your help to get you on my back.”   
  
It’s an awkward and thoroughly painful endeavor, but in the end Pidge is situated in a piggyback with Keith carrying her. She’s able to help by clinging to his shoulders with her arms, and keeping her left leg curled around his waist as much as possible, although the overall effect is a bit monkey-like. She thanks her lucky stars Lance isn’t here to make fun of them for it.  
  
“Can you move okay?” Pidge asks.  
  
“Maybe. I think. You’ll have to direct,” Keith says. “How do we fight though? We’re open targets like this.”  
  
“I can help with my bayard, but I’ll need to take the right side,” Pidge says. “Good thing you’re ambidextrous, you’ll have to be the left arm.”  
  
“There’s a change of pace,” Keith mutters.   
  
Pidge rolls her eyes, and pushes his Marmora knife into his hand—he’d lost it on the floor when trying to help her climb onto his back with a busted leg. “There. You’re armed…no pun intended. Whatever you do, _don’t_ do that thing when you use your jetpack to fight, or I’m gonna be charbroiled Pidge, okay?”  
  
“I wouldn’t even if you _weren’t_ being my eyes,” Keith says, grumbling. “With my luck I’d blast myself right into a wall.”   
  
The almost cartoonish image in her head of a flattened Keith peeling off a wall Wyle E. Coyote style might have been hilarious if the situation weren’t so dire. “I’ll keep you away from the walls,” Pidge promises. “On the count of three. Ready?”   
  
Keith crouches a little to better take her weight. The knife in his left hand extends to a full sword, glowing slightly. His right hand curls beneath her upper leg to better support her injured limb, which is simultaneously painful and a relief, paradoxical as it sounds. “Ready.”   
  
“One…two…three… _go!”_   
  
Keith blasts out from behind the storage containers in a rush. Pidge grimaces at how painfully it jars her leg, but does her best to ignore it—especially since they have bigger concerns. Two sentries are _right_ there, and immediately turn to raise their blasters.   
  
“Shit!” Pidge curses, and lashes out with her bayard, activating the taser function as soon as the grapple leaves its port. The two sentries jerk and sizzle almost immediately, collapsing where they stand. Unfortunately, her wild strike also throws Keith off balance, and he stumbles sideways, nearly tripping on one of the collapsed robots and colliding with another metal container.  
  
“Sorry,” Pidge says with a wince. “I didn’t mean to— _strike left!_ ”  
  
Keith, to his credit, doesn’t even hesitate. He swipes out in a wide arc to the left with his Marmora blade, bracing his legs to counter the momentum. It’s wildly uncoordinated and lacks Keith’s usual precision, but it does still manage to slice open the front half of a sentry’s chest cavity, enough that it sparks and collapses to the ground.  
  
“Felt something—did I hit it?” Keith asks, head twisting around and eyes wide, like he’s trying to see through the non-existent gloom. Pidge spits out some of his hair that gets in her mouth, and pulls back to keep from getting her chin smashed with his skull, but that ends up overbalancing Keith the wrong way and he staggers backwards.   
  
“Ugh, this is _hard,”_ Pidge hisses in frustration. She leans forward again, keeping her head to Keith’s right instead to help balance him again. “Keep going forward, I think we’re clear for a few ticks.”  
  
Keith does, leaning forward for better momentum. Pidge swears she hears him muttering under his breath, “Starting to appreciate the work Hunk and Lance do more….”  
  
Despite herself, Pidge snorts.  
  
They blast through the storage room, and manage to avoid most of the sentries, which have spread out throughout all the containers searching for their quarry. “Watch the robes on the floor,” Pidge says, and Keith manages to skirt around them at her direction to avoid tripping on the druid’s remains.   
  
“Right right right!” she hisses next, and Keith banks hard, nearly unseating Pidge as he turns for the door. She wraps her hand hard around his collar and neck to keep hanging on, and he makes a strangled choking noise.   
  
“Breathing’s nice,” he manages to hiss at her, as he manages to stagger back upright from the turn.   
  
“Sorry,” she mutters. “Go for broke. Run! Fast!”  
  
Keith does, and even blinded and burdened with her additional weight, he’s pretty fast. He leans forward to get the most speed he can, and Pidge leans forward with him, thankful he trusts her enough to just run full out without fear of running into a wall. They make it up the first hallway just in time, and when Pidge (carefully) turns to look over her shoulder, the remaining sentries are only just starting to get into place enough to shoot.  
  
“Turn coming up ahead,” Pidge warns. “On your right. Maybe twenty steps.”  
  
“Got it,” Keith acknowledges.  
  
He nearly overshoots the turn anyway, and clips the edge of the hall with his left shoulder as Pidge screeches, “Turn, turn, turn already!” The Marmora blade takes a small chunk out of the corner of the hallway intersection, and Keith winces.   
  
“Sorry,” Pidge says, genuinely apologetic. “Forgot your steps are longer than mine.”  
  
“S’fine,” Keith says, panting slightly. “What’s next?”  
  
“We make it down this hallway and one more, and we’re at the bay we hid the Green Lion in,” Pidge says. “It’ll be locked, we’re gonna need your hand for th— _dodge right!”_ Keith does immediately, barely missing the blast from the sentry’s gun as the enemy appears ahead of them. “Not that far right!” Pidge screeches a moment later, as Keith turns too far and bounces off the right wall. She suppresses a scream through clenched teeth as her bad leg slams against the metal walls of the hallway, and her fingers dig into Keith’s collar unconsciously.   
  
“Pidge!” Keith yells. “You okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“  
  
“S’fine,” it’s Pidge’s turn to hiss, still through clenched teeth. “Brace. My bayard.”   
  
They do better the second time she attacks. This time, Keith turns and manages to counter her momentum as she lashes out with her bayard. It’s not unlike Voltron’s movements when Keith strikes in the Red Lion with the Blazing Sword, and she wonders if maybe he learned it from that. Whatever the case, her electrified bayard smashes into the sentry’s head, and it collapses to the floor. They _don’t_ teeter awkwardly afterwards, and Keith is able to right them again with no incident.  
  
“Ten paces and jump, or you’ll trip over the sentry I just downed,” Pidge warns.  
  
“My steps or yours?”  
  
“Yours— _jump!”_  
  
Keith does, clearing the robot’s sparking remains just barely. He stumbles awkwardly on the landing, and Pidge is afraid for a moment they’re going to go tumbling, but he manages to catch them both at the last minutes and get upright again. “Where now?” he asks, trying and failing to look around on instinct.   
  
“Forward, twenty more paces, then turn left,” Pidge orders.  
  
This goes much more smoothly than the last turn, and Keith actually manages to make it into the center of the hallway without hitting anything, which is impressive on both of their parts. There’s two more sentries there, but Keith lashes out at Pidge’s order with his Marmora blade and manages to take one down through sheer dumb luck, and Pidge manages to taze the second.   
  
“Run about fifty more steps,” Pidge orders. “Then start to slow down. There’s a door ahead, don’t run into it. We’re gonna need your hand for this.”   
  
Keith follows her directions, and manages to not slam headfirst into a locked steel door, which is a relief. Then comes the newest hurdle. “Uh…how do I…” he asks, trying to look around for the panel right next to his head and staring right through it unseeing.   
  
“Give me the sword thing. _Carefully,”_ Pidge instructs. Keith trusts her with his Marmora weapon without hesitation, reducing it to knife size and holding it up by the blade for her to take the handle. She takes it carefully. When his hand is free, she says, “Panel’s on your left. About head height.”  
  
Keith pats around on the wall awkwardly, but after two or three tries he still can’t seem to find it. She can tell he’s getting frustrated—for all his supposed calm through all of this, Pidge can tell his blindness is clearly bothering him. She grimaces, sticks her own bayard between her teeth to free up her hand, and grabs Keith’s wrist, guiding it to the panel. Keith huffs in frustration, but after a moment he mutters, “Thanks.”  
  
“Don’t mention it. Really.” The panel beeps as it recognizes Keith’s Galra DNA, and the door slides open—just as company shows up from behind them. “Go! Two steps, and we’ll lock it.”  
  
Keith does as bid, and Pidge hastily presses his hand agains the panel on the other side of the door. “Hold it there,” she instructs, and Keith does. Pidge hastily punches in half a dozen instructions on the keypad, and the panel beeps again, flashing red as the door slams behind them. “Okay, locked. We shouldn’t get hit from behind, at least until they can override that.”  
  
“Good.” Keith pulls his hand away from the panel, and Pidge presses the handle of his knife back into his palm. She feels the tension leave his shoulders just slightly when he gets the weapon back—Keith definitely does not like being unarmed in a dangerous place like this. “Where’m I going now?”  
  
“Forward, and—oh, _no.”_   
  
Pidge can see the green honeycombed dome of the Green Lion’s particle barrier just ahead, and the wide-open bay doors just behind, letting in hot desert wind and bright sunlight. It’s a beautiful, welcome sight. The twenty or so sentries between them and the Green Lion, however, are not.  
  
“What? What’s going on? What do you see?”  
  
“Trouble,” Pidge hisses. “We got so close—left, dodge left!”  
  
Keith does, tripping over some spare wiring, and he crashes painfully to his knees behind a pile of large metal canisters. They miss being shot by inches.   
  
“How many?” Keith asks, panting and wincing slightly as he gingerly tries to shift to a more comfortable crouch. “Sounds like a lot.”  
  
“It’s a lot,” Pidge agrees. “More than we could take—“  
  
There’s a screech of metal and a shuddering rumble that sends Keith collapsing onto his side and Pidge sprawling awkwardly on top of him. A moment later there’s an unmistakable digital roar, and the dry, hot desert heat gets inexplicably frigid.   
  
“We figured you guys could use a little help,” Lance’s voice says over the comms. Pidge has never been more happy to hear that voice, even if she can absolutely see the smug look on Lance’s face that unquestionably accompanies that tone.   
  
She hastily manages to re-climb onto Keith’s back with his help, and he clambers to his feet. Pidge peeks carefully around the stack of canisters, and her eyes go wide in surprise. The Blue Lion is hanging half in, half out of the bay, behind the Green Lion with its metal paws outstretched as far as they can go, huge claws dug into the steel floor for stability. Blue is a little too big to fit into the bay door properly, and is wedged awkwardly into place by the blue plating of its back; Pidge is pretty sure the Yellow and Black Lions couldn’t have managed the tight fit at all at all. Lance has managed to cram his Lion in just enough to get a decent angle with his ice ray, and the sentries that _had_ been between them and the Green Lion are now little more than miniature glaciers.   
  
“Nice shot, Lance!” Pidge says. Even Keith nods in agreement, although he can’t actually see the extent of the maneuver.   
  
“I got you covered, get in your Lion,” Lance says. The Blue Lion’s head turns and its jaw opens wide, aimed at the door they’d just come through.   
  
Pidge isn’t about to argue. “Careful,” she warns Keith. “The ground’s icy now, watch your footing.” He nods in acknowledgement, and she manages to guide him around the icy pillars of former sentries to the Green Lion’s particle barrier. Green drops the barrier when they’re close, and even helpfully crouches just in front of Keith, opening her jaws wide and dropping the ramp at his feet so he doesn’t have to find his way to her on his own. Getting through the hatch to the cockpit is a veritable nightmare, but Keith eventually manages to stagger his way to the pilot’s chair, patting awkwardly until he finds it. He deposits Pidge in her seat and sits down wearily with his back to the dashboard, closing his eyes—not that it does much, as far as Pidge can tell.  
  
“We’re out of here!” Pidge calls over the comms. “Lance, back out so we can escape. Thanks for the cover.”  
  
“Are you two alright?” Shiro asks. He’s got his Leader Voice in, but there’s an edge of concern to it. Pidge isn’t sure how much the three of them managed to hear over the comms, but they have to know things weren’t exactly going great.   
  
“Nothing a cryo-pod won’t cure,” Keith says, loud enough for Green’s cabin comm to pick it up. Shiro makes a little _hmph_ that says he’s not entirely satisfied with the answer, but it’s the best he’s gonna get for the moment.   
  
“How’d you guys make it out?” Hunk asks, as Pidge finally guides the Green Lion out of the bay. She sees the Yellow and Black Lions zip past defensively, blasting several approaching fighters out of the air. “We figured we would have to break in somehow to get you guys out of there.”  
  
“Just had to think like Voltron,” Pidge answers, grinning a little. She glances over in Keith’s direction, and even though she knows he can’t see her grin, she _does_ catch the little smirk on his face all the same. Yeah, things aren’t the _greatest_ at the moment—her leg is still _killing_ her, and Keith’s still blind until they can get him in a cryo-pod, so piloting and actual Voltron are out until further notice. But like Keith said…she was okay, and so was he. They were alive, and they’d made it out in one piece between them. And that wasn’t a bad ending at all.  
  
And more importantly, she can’t believe that idiotic plan _worked_. She can’t wait until she has time to tell them the full story. Lance and Hunk are going to eat it up. Even Shiro and Allura and Coran will probably be impressed.   
  
Yeah. Definitely not a bad ending at all.


	15. Cooking Troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was a little cheer-up gift to butteredonions, who'd been having a rough week :) 
> 
> Shiro and Hunk, "What about something where it's someone other than shiro who has an arm injury? And he gets to give advice or support or whatever"

Shiro’s walking through the dining hall when he hears a magnificent crash.  
  
He freezes in place immediately. The noise had sounded like it came from the kitchen, and sure enough five ticks later he hears a loud, “Aw, _quiznak!”_ from the hall leading to it. It sounds like Hunk, which isn’t unusual for this part of the Castle normally…but the crashing certainly is. Hunk takes good care of the kitchen, providing it’s not malfunctioning.  
  
Shiro hesitates for barely a second before heading for the kitchen. Hunk had banned him from being in it while he was cooking ages ago, but, well, it sounds like this could be something of an emergency.   
  
He pokes his head in cautiously, and winces a little at the sight. Hunk is surrounded by a mess of pots, pans, bowls, plates, and various utensils that have all spilt out the cabinets onto the floor. The countertops are dusted with some sort of powder and covered in various boxes of foodstuffs, and there’s a spill from something sticky and orange leaking onto the floor. Shiro hasn’t seen the kitchen look like this much of a disaster since the time the food goo dispenser had malfunctioned (and that one time he’d tried to make dinner, but that’s an incident he’d rather not think on).   
  
“Argh!” Hunk hasn’t noticed he’s got company yet, and his frustrations are clearly showing. He stares down at the mess of cutlery and cookware around his feet, and his shoulders slouch in defeat. “I just wanted _one_ bowl! Why is this so hard?”  
  
Shiro can take a guess why—there’s a bright yellow brace strapping Hunk’s right arm from wrist to halfway to his elbow. It wraps partly around his hand up to the knuckle and binds his thumb awkwardly in place, and probably makes most movements with it uncoordinated at worst and painful at best.   
  
Hunk had injured himself on their most recent mission during the ground work when they liberated another planet. And although it would normally be a matter of doboshes for the cryo-pods to heal, the Galra defense had managed to do _something_ to the Castle’s systems before finally retreating. While its crystal was still in place, the Castle currently had very little power, and the entire block the cryo-pods were in was completely non-functional. Coran and Allura were working night and day to fix it, with Pidge’s help. But until the matter was resolved it meant Hunk had to deal with the nasty arm injury like any human back on Earth would: slowly, and with a great deal of inconvenience.   
  
Coran had expressly forbid him from doing anything strenuous with his right arm as of yesterday, when he’d examined it. Based on the mess the kitchen’s been reduced to, Shiro has a feeling Hunk’s been ignoring that particular order.  
  
“Need some help?” he offers.  
  
Hunk startles, and whips around. He doesn’t look particularly guilty about getting caught, but he does look exhausted, and a bit disheveled, now that Shiro thinks about it. His hair is a mess, he’s missing his usual belt pouches, and he’s not wearing the apron he usually uses when cooking. Some of the powder on the countertop is also on his shirt, Shiro notices idly.   
  
“Shiro!” Hunk says. “No, nope, I’m uh…I’m totally good, I’m completely one-hundred-percent need-help free—“   
  
Shiro merely raises an eyebrow at him, and looks pointedly at the mess on the floor, and the orange stain dripping its way down to the tiles.   
  
“—okay, fine,” Hunk says. “I might have, uh, made a bit of a mess. I didn’t mean to! It’s just… _this_.” He gestures with his bad arm for emphasis, and winces when he does so a little too quickly to be comfortable. Then he blows a frustrated breath at his bangs in his face, and brushes them back with his left hand. The effort is completely futile, and they’re in his face again in seconds.   
  
“Where’s your headband?” Shiro asks, realizing what’s so off about Hunk’s appearance. Or at least, one of the things.  
  
Hunk mutters something under his breath.  
  
“Come again?”  
  
“Couldn’t tie it on,” Hunk says, a bit louder. He pulls a bundle of orange cloth out of his pocket with his left hand, and stares down at it a little forlornly.   
  
“Here.” Shiro steps into the kitchen proper and takes the long strip of orange cloth from Hunk’s hand. Hunk’s eyes light up with relief, and he turns to let Shiro tie it around his head, lifting his bangs out of the way with his good hand. Shiro knots it carefully, solid enough to hold for the day but loose enough Hunk will be able to pick it out one-handed later. “Let me know if that’s too tight.”  
  
“No, it’s perfect.” Hunk sighs in relief. “That feels so much better. It’s the little things, y’know?”  
  
“I know what you mean.” Shiro starts collecting spilled plates and cutlery from the floor and dumping them into the cleaner for a quick decontamination cycle. Altean technology thankfully doesn’t take as long as an Earth dishwasher, nor does it require you to be up to your elbows in suds. Shiro could probably still do it—his prosthetic is waterproof—but really, why take a risk?  
  
“Aw, Shiro, you don’t have to do that—“ Hunk says, waving his free hand in protest. “I made the mess, I can—“  
  
“You’re supposed to be taking it easy, from what I recall,” Shiro says, giving Hunk a pointed look.   
  
Hunk actually winces. “Okay, so I _know_ that’s what Coran _said_ ,” Hunk says, “and I was _trying_ at first, but I got to thinking, because, what if there was an attack? I mean we just had an attack, but there could be another one, and what would we do then?”  
  
“Hunk—“  
  
“I mean,” Hunk continues, oblivious to Shiro’s attempt to cut in, “I don’t think I could fly like this, well I mean maybe I could but it would really hurt with the control levers and all and I’m not exactly the best pilot even when I’m fighting fit, or is that flying fit?”  
  
“Hunk—“  
  
“And I guess we could try to Lion shuffle again, I mean you’re back so Keith’s back in Red so Lance is back in Blue but maybe Allura could fly Yellow in a real pinch, only I’m not sure Yellow would like her so much, but Yellow might like Lance and maybe Allura could fly Blue again for him while he’s in Yellow—“  
  
 _“Hunk—“_  
  
“—but then I figured maybe it’d just be better if the Castle was up again so I could get healed to avoid all that so I tried tracking down Allura and Pidge and Coran to help, but they said I’m supposed to be resting my arm just like you said, and everyone else is busy, so I figured I’d try some baking to clear my head ‘cause that always makes me feel better, but I can’t even do _that_ right without making a mess and I can’t even tie my own headband or put on my own belt or apron or write or type or do any of my own projects and getting dressed took _forever_ and it’s just—“  
  
 _“Hunk!”_  
  
Hunk finally grinds to a halt, and stops staring at his busted hand in frustration, instead blinking at Shiro. “Hm? What’s that?”  
  
“Hunk,” Shiro says patiently, “You need to _calm down._ You’re blowing this way out of proportion. The world is not going to end because you hurt your arm. Things are going to be just fine.”  
  
“Nothing is ever _just fine_ here on Team Voltron!” Hunk says, throwing his hands in the air and wincing a second later in regret. “Every time things seem _just fine_ they get worse!”  
  
“Regardless,” Shiro says, “Even if it does, we’ll figure it out. Things are going to be fine. Coran thinks he can have this all fixed soon, so it’s just a couple quintents you need to put up with this. And if we do get attacked in the meantime, we’ll figure something out. But remember we have the entire Dokalite army we just freed on our side, so I doubt we’d need Voltron. You’ll be fine sitting this one out if you need to.”   
  
“I guess…” Hunk looks around a little forlornly. “Still, what am I gonna do about dinner? I can’t let Coran make it. And I really wanted to make some brownies…”   
  
“I’ll help,” Shiro offers, and at Hunk’s incredulous stare, he holds up both hands in a gesture of surrender and adds, “I’ll only do exactly what you tell me to, to the letter. You can supervise. And maybe I can teach you a trick or two, as well.”  
  
“About cooking?” Hunk says, sounding disbelieving.  
  
“About doing things one handed,” Shiro corrects.  
  
Hunk frowns. “One handed? But, you uh…” He glances at Shiro’s prosthetic, confused but not quite sure if he can voice the _but you do kind of have two hands_ for what it is.  
  
“This thing is pretty useful for a lot of situations,” Shiro agrees, flexing each of his metal fingers once, “but it’s kind of useless for little detail work. Here, I can show you—do you need one of these cracked?” He gestures to a small box of eggs from the local market that more or less look like chicken eggs, other than the bright red color.  
  
“Er, yeah, two of them, but…”  
  
“Watch.” Shiro reaches for one of the eggs with his prosthetic. As long as he holds it fully cupped in the palm of his metal hand it’s fine, but the moment he tries to hold it with just the metal thumb and forefinger the smooth texture of the egg slips on the equally smooth metal of his fingers, and the egg drops for the countertop. He catches it in his left hand, knowing better than to make a grab for it with his right or risk adding to the mess.  
  
 _“Oh.”_ Hunk’s eyes widen in realization. “Oh. Yeah. I guess if it’s all smooth metal surfaces you wouldn’t have as much gripping power or traction or anything…”  
  
“Right. It’s the same with things like pens too. You kind of have to hold it by pressure, but with the little delicate things if you use _too_ much pressure…” Shiro mimes a little _pop_ with his metal fingers. “And it’s hard to tell how much is too much, because there’s no touch sensation either. So. I learned to do things with my left hand, for the little stuff.”  
  
He demonstrates by pulling one of the small bowls out of the now-clean decontamination unit with his metal hand, setting it on the counter, and neatly cracking the egg in his left hand into it in one fluid motion.  
  
Hunk’s jaw drops. “Shiro,” he says after a moment, “That was actually…really well done. Like…professional looking.”  
  
“Scrambled eggs are one of the three things I can actually cook with edible end results,” Shiro admits. “I have a lot of practice.” He snatches a second egg from the box, and cracks it just as easily alongside the first, before tossing the shells in the trash unit. “Anyway, you might not need to do eggs constantly one handed, but I can show you some tricks for other stuff. Zippers, buttons, tying knots, buckles, typing, cleaning, cutting things, eating…all the things you take for granted.”  
  
“That’d be really great,” Hunk says, with visible relief.  
  
Shiro didn’t originally plan on it, but he spends most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Hunk, alternately teaching him a few little useful one-handed tips and tricks, and providing two hands for dinner prep where there’s just no getting around it. Hunk seems to noticeably relax as the day goes on, both as he gets a better hang for one-handed coordination and as the first faint scents of a (completely not burned) dinner and dessert begin wafting through the kitchen. He doesn’t seem to feel nearly so bad about his disheveled appearance after Shiro admits the first time he’d tried zipping up a _different_ vest back on Earth with his prosthetic he’d torn the zipper teeth right out.   
  
“It just takes practice,” Shiro tells him. “You’ll get used to it, and it’s only for a few days.”  
  
“For me, maybe,” Hunk says, sobering a little. “You still have to put up with it all the time.”  
  
“There’s annoyances,” Shiro admits, as the timer dings on the oven, “But there’s benefits, too.” He ignores Hunk’s oven mitts, and calmly reaches inside the oven with his prosthetic to pull the massive oven roast out on its tray with one hand. It’s hefty and piping hot, but Shiro doesn’t feel the weight or heat of it as he sets it down on the counter on a few cooking mats. He waves the unmarred metal palm and fingers at Hunk. “See? Now, how’d I do, chef? With supervision, of course.”  
  
“This…actually looks edible,” Hunk says, impressed. “As long as you take instructions to the letter, you can cook!”   
  
“Happy to help,” Shiro says. Outwardly he’s the perfect measure of calm; inwardly he’s secretly impressed that he did it right at all, but he’ll never admit to it.  
  
“Let’s get this out to the table and call the others then!” Hunk says. He looks bright and enthusiastic again, earlier woes and anxieties forgotten in favor of good food and a little step towards independence.   
  
“I’ll carry it,” Shiro says. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy. Go call the others.”   
  
“Yes, sir!” Hunk says, beaming. Shiro transfers the roast to a platter, but before he can pick it up, Hunk slips around the kitchen island and wraps his left arm around Shiro in the closest approximation he can currently get to a bear hug. “Thanks, Shiro. I mean it. This morning was awful but now’s a lot better.”   
  
“Any time,” Shiro says, and he means it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that takes care of all my tumblr prompts for this year! It's been a good year :)


	16. One Very Tiny Troublemaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For my 2018 April Fools prompts. There was a request for Smol!Slav...aka, the only smol I will ever write.

There’s an enormous, thundering crash from the adjacent room, followed by a high-pitched squeal of surprise. Shiro groans as he looks around, and sure enough, his charge has disappeared again.  
  
But not for long. Five ticks later, something comes skittering out of the room on his right, surprisingly fast for its small size. The slinky creature scuttles on multiple legs and makes a beeline straight for Shiro’s foot.   
  
In any other situation Shiro might think it was some sort of giant alien space-bug, and reacted accordingly. He knows better now, though. He resigns himself to his fate as the creature reaches his boot, claws its way up his pant-leg like a particularly insistent kitten, slithers across his back, and comes to rest curled around his neck.   
  
“What did you do?” Shiro asks sternly, once Slav is safely situated over his shoulders again.  
  
“I didn’t!” Slav—a much, much tinier Slav—squeaks in a much more high pitched voice than usual. “It _fell._ It wasn’t safe _at all.”_   
  
Shiro sighs in exasperation. They still have no idea _why_ Slav appears to have gotten so tiny, or so much younger. Coran says Slav certainly _looks_ like a young bytor, and not just an adult that was shrunk. Based on his behavior, he acts a lot younger, too.   
  
But nobody knows how it happened. The Olkari reported heading for Slav’s lab to check in on the status of a project, only to find the engineer much, much smaller, and cowering away in the corner. He’d howled whenever any of the Olkari came near him, and the paladins—more specifically, Shiro—had been called in to fish him out.   
  
The Olkari are working with Coran, Hunk and Pidge to try and reverse-engineer the instruments in Slav’s lab to figure out what happened. But in the meantime, they—more specifically Shiro, once again—are stuck with a much younger Slav until the situation can be remedied.  
  
And if Slav was a handful as an adult, he’s nearly impossible as a child.  
  
Shiro sighs. “What were you doing to _make_ it fall?” he clarifies, as he pokes his head into the room. It’s one of the project rooms, where Pidge and Hunk frequently fiddle around in their spare time for useful enhancements, or just for fun. Some sort of device is now tipped over on its side on the floor, and parts are scattered everywhere. He winces despite himself. They aren’t going to be happy about that.   
  
Slav hesitates. Shiro can feel him trembling, just slightly, against his neck. “I just wanted to see how it worked,” he whines, after a moment. “I could improve it. I bet it’s not _efficient.”_  
  
That’s the problem with a younger Slav, really. Even young as he is, it’s clear his intelligence is still through the roof, and his vocabulary and basic understanding of science are exceptional. _Unlike_ his adult counterpart, he’s still got the wildly curious nature of a child, and an inherent desire to get into and take apart absolutely everything—only to inevitably scare himself when it goes wrong.   
  
“That’s not for you to take apart,” Shiro scolds. “You need to ask, first.”   
  
“I could make it better, though,” Slav insists, stubbornly.   
  
“Well, we’re not going to do that without asking,” Shiro says. “But you can talk to Pidge and Hunk later about your, uh…improvements. Maybe they’ll listen.”   
  
He steps forward to at least clean up the mess and put the device upright again. But the moment he does, little Slav screeches directly in his ear, and digs all four sets of tiny hands into Shiro’s neck. He’s never been so grateful for his undercut, or he’s sure Slav would be pulling at fistfuls of hair. _“No!_ Don’t go near it! It’s _dangerous!”_  
  
“Ow! Stop that!” Shiro reaches around by feel and manages to find the scruff of Slav’s neck, plucking him— _carefully,_ with his left hand—from his shoulder. Little Slav almost automatically curls like a pillbug, stubby little tail twirling into his multiple arms. “We talked about that. That’s not nice.”   
  
Little Slav only looks the tiniest bit contrite. Most of him seems more concerned with checking how close to the device they are. “It _fell!_ It tried to kill me! That means it’s dangerous. There’s a chance that it could still be dangerous!”  
  
Little Slav hasn’t _quite_ graduated to estimating by percentages exactly what the danger level is, nor has he rambled about realities—those must be things that he’ll develop later—but he is still a nervous little thing, when his excitement and curiosity don’t get the better of him. Shiro sighs. “Okay. Fine. We’ll leave it for now. But you ask first, next time, got it?”  
  
Slav nods.   
  
Shiro doesn’t expect much to come of it. The next time a distraction comes up, this will happen all over again. They haven’t even had Slav for a full quintent yet and he’s already gotten into more trouble than Shiro thought possible.   
  
He’s already completely disassembled one of Coran’s handheld monitors, a holopad, the spare controller for the _Mercury Gameflux II,_ and the food goo machine. The last had resulted in a complete mess in the kitchen, but when Slav had learned a bath was involved—in _water_ —he’d fled into the Castle’s ventilation system. Then he’d gotten stuck, and squealed until even the mice had complained, and Pidge had been forced to crawl into the ducts to find him and haul him out. Figuring out how to clean the dust _and_ the food goo off of him without submerging him in a tub (or, at his size, a big bowl) of water had been a veritable nightmare, and even cleaning him up with a wet facecloth had resulted in him screeching about everyone trying to drown him for the duration.   
  
Keeping him still would be ideal, but activities that would keep most children occupied for hours don’t seem to interest him. Lance’s idea of hide and seek had turned out to be terrible—Slav had squeezed himself into a cabinet of tools, gotten stuck, and screamed bloody murder until Allura had found the codes to let him out.   
  
“At least he was easy to find?” Lance offers sheepishly. But while not wrong, he’s banned from further babysitting. Which is a pity, because in any other situation, it would be _easy_ to foist off most kids on Lance.   
  
Movies don’t work either. Slav is indifferent to most cartoons, having little interest in animated animals from a planet he doesn’t know anything about, and bored with the songs characters burst into every twenty minutes. When they try other classics, he complains.   
  
“The science is fundamentally unsound,” he squeaks, in the middle of Star Wars. “That doesn’t make sense. Hover technology doesn’t work that way!” He whines and complains through all of it, fidgeting incessantly, until Shiro finally gives up on that route—mostly to save Slav before somebody murders him for insulting a classic.  
  
Coloring works, sort of. They find crayon equivalents in the Castle of Lions, and settle Slav down at a table to play. The crayons are half as big as he is, and take three sets of arms for him to use, but he draws happily, for a little while at least. Until Shiro eventually realizes it’s not a drawing of his favorite animals or people he likes or anything else kids normally draw. Instead it’s a surprisingly technical document detailing the schematics of some sort of machine, measured and labeled in meticulously precise detail.  
  
“I think it would actually work,” Hunk says, bemused, when he sees the drawing. “Although I…don’t actually know what it _does.”_   
  
“Should we put it on the refrigerator?” Lance asks, scratching his head.   
  
But not even drawing keeps little Slav’s attention for long, and eventually he gets antsy. And starts disappearing on them, when his curiosity gets the better of him—only to come running shortly thereafter, when he realizes whatever he found is actually pretty scary. And considering how tiny he is compared to everything on the Castle of Lions, _most_ things turn out to be pretty scary.   
  
At least Shiro can sort of keep track of him. He’s not sure Slav actually remembers him from Beta Traz, but he does seem to trust Shiro over the others. More importantly, Shiro is the tallest person there. And when Slav gets scared, he climbs the tallest thing, where he’s safe. Which, most of the time, is Shiro, so he’s fairly easy to keep track of.   
  
(A few times it’s not Shiro. It’s shelves, or crates, or on one occasion, one of the Lions. Once he gets up, he can’t get down, not unlike a kitten, and he wails until someone comes to rescue him. Shiro’s almost _glad_ it’s him most of the time; it saves everyone the hassle).   
  
Like now. With a sigh, Shiro settles Slav back down on his shoulder, where the little engineer immediately sidles up to his neck again and curls around it as much he’s able. Adult Slav is long enough to curl over Shiro’s shoulders and around his torso like a python, but little Slav can’t even wrap fully around his neck from tip to tail. He’s still shaking a little, which guarantees he’ll stick with Shiro for at least ten doboshes or so. Until he forgets why he was scared and gets distracted, anyway.  
  
Shiro needs to figure out something to _keep_ him from getting distracted. Slav’s so small—annoying as he is, quite a few things on the ship could hurt him, and at some point he’s going to get himself into real trouble. “What do you want to do instead of that?” he asks, as he leaves the project room and closes the door behind him.   
  
(A closed door won’t do all that much, unfortunately, not if Slav _really_ wants to get in. He can squeeze into far too many place for his own good. But Shiro needs to at least make an effort).  
  
“Experiments,” Slav says promptly.   
  
Shiro blinks. “Experiments?”  
  
“For _science,_ ” Slav says, and his high pitched little voice seems to get higher with excitement. “You can do all _kinds_ of things with science. But you have to experiment to figure out how to do them.”   
  
“What kind of experiments?” Shiro asks, cautiously.   
  
“Building things!” Slav says. He slithers across to Shiro’s other shoulder in excitement. “Like a machine that can make you invisible. Or like your robot arm!”   
  
Shiro rolls his eyes. Slav’s fascination with his arm has continued even as a child, although Shiro has to admit it probably _is_ pretty cool from a kid’s perspective…provided they aren’t trying to pull it apart to see how it works. Which little Slav had already tried. Twice.   
  
But this could be something he could work with. “Or the thing you drew earlier? What would you need to build things like that?”  
  
“Yes!” Slav rattles off a number of tools and parts excitedly. It doesn’t sound terribly complex, and it might keep him occupied for a little while. Shiro considers, but eventually detours to a different project room. Slav seems curious and seriously ready to clamber down off of Shiro’s shoulders to explore, until a machine in the far corner makes a loud _bang_ , and he presses close to Shiro’s neck again with a screech of surprise.  
  
“It’s okay,” Shiro promises. “And we won’t stay. Just getting your, uh, supplies for your experiment, and then we can go back to the lounge. How does that sound?”  
  
“Acceptable,” little Slav says. “But hurry. There’s a high chance that things get more scary the more we’re here.”   
  
Shiro doesn’t waste any time, mostly because Slav is apt to forget why he’s scared if they stick around long enough for him to get used to the noise, and then Shiro will have to find him again. He grabs a hover tray and a box, and fills it full of tools, screws, interlocking metal pieces, and other bits and bobs when Slav points and says, “That, too!” Once he’s done, he takes the whole mess and pulls it back to the lounge, where he dumps it carefully over a table.   
  
“There,” Shiro says. “Is that enough?”  
  
“Yes!” Slav says. He sounds positively delighted, and swarms down Shiro’s arm like an excitable ferret, diving into the mess of parts. Shiro’s never seen his adult counterpart seem so _enthusiastic._ Even building the things he’s known for, like his gravity generator, seemed to bring  a sense of accomplishment, but never this level of outright wonder. It’s _almost_ endearing—if one can forget Slav’s numerous eccentricities and bad habits.   
  
Shiro is surprised to find his last-ditch effort actually works. Slav seems enormously content working on…whatever it is he’s working on…screwing things together, dragging things around, measuring and reorganizing. On occasion he’ll demand Shiro’s assistance with a wrench that’s too big for him, or instruct Shiro to weld two pieces together with his ‘robot arm,’ which mostly consists of pinching two bits of metal together and lighting up for a few seconds. He’s a bossy little taskmaster, but it’s still infinitely preferable to him disappearing, or getting himself stuck somewhere and screeching until somebody gives him attention.  
  
In the end, two and a half vargas later, he’s built a…a something. Shiro’s not really sure what it is. It resembles the thing Slav had drawn, but like Hunk said, it doesn’t appear to have any practical purpose. It has a few moving parts that click and hum in a not unpleasant way, and it’s maybe as long as Shiro’s forearm, but that’s about all that can be said for it.   
  
Slav seems pleased with his work, though. He preens as he crawls all over it, and gives Shiro a superior look. “It’s complete!” he says excitedly. “My experiment is a success.”   
  
“It’s…very nice,” Shiro says, for lack of anything else to say.  
  
“Because I made it,” Slav says, with his usual lack of tact, only amplified by his much younger age. Then he yawns. Apparently having worn himself out with all his science…ing…he scuttles over to Shiro’s Galra hand on the table, pushes it over so that it faces upward, and curls up in the palm.   
  
“Wait,” Shiro says, “that’s not—“  
  
But it’s useless. Little Slav, worn out by his very exciting day, is already fast asleep in Shiro’s hand.   
  
“That can’t even be comfortable,” Shiro says, mildly exasperated. His hand is _metal._ Surely Slav would be more comfortable on something softer.   
  
But little Slav seems content enough where he is. Two sets of hands are wrapped around Shiro’s metal thumb, not unlike a child hugging a stuffed animal close. The rest of his little hands curl close to his body. He’s just slightly too big for Shiro’s hand, and his tail and back legs flop awkwardly between Shiro’s other fingers.   
  
It doesn’t look comfortable, but Slav is already snoring, and Shiro doesn’t want to risk waking him now. Little Slav is a terror by himself. A _cranky_ little Slav would be infinitely worse. He supposes Slav can stay put, for now.  
  
…Although that means Shiro is also stuck where he is. If he moves, Slav will surely wake.   
  
He sighs. It’s going to be a _long_ quintent.


	17. Allergies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transferring some stuff from tumblr that I forgot to upload.   
> This was from April Fools 2018. It was a request for a sickfic. I took it in a different direction than usual :)

Hunk is returning from his project room and thinking fondly of bed when he hears the unmistakable sound of someone retching. 

He immediately winces in sympathy, and presses a hand over his own stomach. He’s no stranger to throwing up, and that one had definitely sounded pretty nasty. 

He dithers on whether or not to act on it. On the one hand, whoever’s sick is probably feeling awful and could maybe use some help…but on the other hand, it’s sure to smell gross, and there will be _bodily fluids,_ and he hates those.

But curiosity wins out. Nobody had _seemed_ sick at the dinner an hour or two ago. They’d all attended the ‘welcome’ feast from their latest liberated race, and everyone had been in good spirits then. Nobody had the tell-tale glassy eyes or clammy skin or pale complexion that came with a stomach bug. Hunk’s genuinely curious what could have happened, so he makes his way for the nearest bathroom, where he’s pretty sure the sound came from.

He finds Shiro kneeling over the closest toilet, clinging to it with both hands like it’s the only thing holding him up. His Galra arm clatters against the bowl as he trembles, tapping in time with his shaky attempts at deep breaths. He looks absolutely miserable, and as Hunk pushes open the door he sticks his head back in the toilet and gags again. 

Hunk winces, and his own stomach roils in sympathy—and again when he catches the smell. _Don’t also throw up,_ he warns himself. That’s not going to help anyone. 

“Hey, Shiro?” Hunk asks. “You okay?”

Well, _that_ was a dumb question. If Shiro’s worshipping the porcelain god this late at night, obviously he’s _not_ okay. Nobody sticks their head in a toilet for fun.

Shiro looks startled when Hunk speaks, though, and looks over at Hunk with a hiss of surprise. “Sorry,” he says, ignoring Hunk’s question. He still looks miserable, but he also looks like he’s trying really hard to assume his usual in-control, leader-like expression. The attempt is ruined pretty spectacularly by the fact that he’s still kneeling next to a toilet, but _boy_ does he get points for effort. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to bed.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Hunk says. Although he’d been about to head there. Almost everyone else had fallen right into bed after the welcome feast—a complicated affair full of rituals and speeches and dancing and a lot of food that had to be eaten exactly right—had been completed. It had been fun, but it had also been exhausting, and most of them had tumbled immediately into bed. Hunk had needed to check on a project of his first, so he’d stayed up an extra varga to deal with that, although he could feel his bunk calling him the whole time. 

But it can wait for this, at least.

Shiro merely grunts in acknowledgement of that. “Go to bed now, then,” he says. He almost sounds commanding, but then his eyes widen, and he lurches back over the toilet and gags again. This time something comes up, and Hunk hastily covers his mouth and nose before he feels like throwing up, too.

“There goes the _shovrinas,_ ” Hunk says sympathetically, once Shiro’s done. The little red pastries had been delectable, and a staple of the welcome feast. 

“Good riddance,” Shiro mutters. It comes out more like a moan. “Never again.”

“No more _shovrinas?_ ”

“No more food. Period.” 

“I don’t think that’s going to solve the problem,” Hunk says, as mildly as possible. 

“Feels like it will,” Shiro mutters. He seems to have slowed down, for the moment, but he also doesn’t budge from the toilet, which means his stomach is still bothering him. 

“That’s just treating a symptom,” Hunk says. “Trust me, food is too good to pass up. How about some medicine instead? Do you have a stomach bug?”

Shiro groans for a moment, then says, “Don’t know. Didn’t think so…”

Actually, looking at him now, Hunk doesn’t think so either. Shiro certainly looks miserable, but he doesn’t appear to be sporting the symptoms of most illnesses that make you puke up your guts like this. His eyes aren’t glassy, and he doesn’t look flushed with fever. He looks a little pale and he’s shaking, but that’s not exactly uncommon when you’re throwing up like this. 

“Maybe you got food poisoning,” Hunk says thoughtfully. It would fit. Except nobody else is sick, and they’d all eaten the same foods. Hell, Hunk had eaten the _shovrinas_ off the same tray as Shiro, and he felt great. Well, as great as one could feel when other people were sick. 

Shiro’s only answer is a tired sigh. “Whatever it is, I’m fine on my own,” he says. His voice sound a little hoarse, but slightly calmer. “Go to bed, Hunk. I’m serious.” 

Hunk frowns. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay…I could get somebody else, if you want. Keith, maybe?” Frankly, Hunk is a little surprised Keith _isn’t_ here already; he usually has a sixth sense for Shiro being in any sort of trouble. And if not him, Lance should have found his way here already. Even if he and Shiro aren’t as close, Lance still has enough experience dealing with sick siblings to have a knack for this sort of thing.

But Shiro shakes his head, and winces a moment later when it clearly unsettles his stomach. “No. No sense getting you or anyone else sick if this _is_ a bug.”

That’s fair, Hunk supposes. And Shiro probably doesn’t want an audience when he’s throwing up. Still, he’s not entirely sure Shiro does have a bug. And Hunk _is_ sort of an expert on throwing up. Keith even said so, that one time. He might be able to help.

“Okay,” Hunk says. “Give me a minute.” And he leaves, but he doesn’t head for his room. Instead, he heads for the kitchen.

It doesn’t take him that long to find what he needs, and he busies himself putting together a few things to help Shiro. He nukes some water in the Altean equivalent of the microwave and grabs one of the floating hover trays as he works. And while he does, he thinks. 

No stomach bug—at least, Hunk doesn’t think so. But not food poisoning, either. If that was the case, probably more of the team would be throwing up. Whatever this is is only affecting Shiro, but it came on so suddenly, barely after they’d left the welcome feast, and—

Oh. _Oh._ Of course. 

Hunk puts together his small tray of helpful items and heads back for the bathroom. This time, he taps on the door once to give Shiro a little warning before entering. “Hey. I’m back.”

Shiro has collapsed a little further over the toilet in the few minutes Hunk’s been gone. His cheek rests against the rim of the seat, and he looks exhausted, and half asleep. He blinks wearily at Hunk when he re-enters. “Thought I told you to go to bed?”

“I know you _said_ that, but I think these things will help,” Hunks says, bringing the tray forward. “And I don’t think you actually have a bug. Do you think you’re done?” He gestures to the toilet.

Shiro groans. “I don’t know. Maybe.” But he doesn’t look keen on leaving quite yet.

Hunk sympathizes. “Okay, well, that doesn’t look comfortable. How about you sit against the wall? Still right here, just in case. And here.” He hands Shiro one of the water packs. “You can rinse. I bet your mouth tastes gross.” 

Shiro blinks at that, but takes the water pack and takes a hesitant sip, swishing it around his mouth before spitting it out in the toilet. “Better,” he admits, handing the pack back to Hunk, and permitting Hunk to nudge him gently against the wall. 

“I figured,” Hunk says. “Here’s a towel you can use to clean your face, if you want.” 

Shiro looks relieved at that, and accepts it gratefully, wiping his mouth. He still doesn’t look remotely comfortable, but at least he looks better.

“And here—drink this,” Hunk says, after accepting the towel back—carefully, since it’s a little gross now. He holds out a hot cup of tea towards Shiro.

Shiro immediately makes a face, and holds up his and in a ‘stop’ gesture. “No. I’ll throw it up again.” He shudders at the thought. 

“Not this, you won’t,” Hunk says. “It’s ginger tea. Well, not _actual_ ginger, that’s on Earth obviously, this is like…space-ginger. But same effect. It’ll help settle your stomach, and it tastes good, too. Just take little sips.” He pushes the cup forward again.

Shiro gives him a disbelieving look.

“Would I lie to you about food stuff?” Hunk says, a little affronted. 

“No,” Shiro says. “I suppose not.” He takes the cup gingerly— _hah!_ —and takes a small, hesitant sip. When his stomach doesn’t immediately rebel, he tries another one. 

“Not bad, right?” Hunk says, grinning a little. 

“No,” Shiro admits. He’s still tentative, clearly expecting to need to dive for the toilet again at any minute, but at least he’s trying. 

“Yeah, I figured,” Hunk says. He takes the opportunity to flush the toilet, very careful not to look at the insides, because _ew._ “So, Shiro, just out of curiosity…have you ever had any food allergies before?”

Shiro blinks at that. “What, like with peanuts or something? No. None.”

“Hmm,” Hunk says thoughtfully. “I think you might be allergic to something in the welcome feast tonight.” Most of the foods they’d eaten were similar to thinks Hunk had cooked for the crew before, and Shiro had never had any problems with those. But the _shovrinas_ and the _tatimanas_ had both been new fare. Hunk knows, because he’d asked for the recipes for both, and they’d been happy to share, but there had been quite a few ingredients Hunk didn’t recognize.

Shiro stares at him blankly. “A food allergy?” He asks slowly. “But I’m not…I don’t need one of those epipens, or something. I’m not, I don’t know, breaking out or dying…” He squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, and Hunk can take a guess that his stomach churns uncomfortably. “Although it sure _feels_ like I’m dying,” he mutters, after a moment.

“Food allergies come in a few different forms,” Hunk says. “You hear about the anaphylactic shock cases a lot on the news, but there’s milder allergic reactions too.” He gestures at the toilet. “Like rejection.” 

Shiro groans at that. “This is not ‘mild.’ I thought Coran said all that stuff at the feast was safe.”

“Well, for most of us, it was,” Hunk says. “Nobody else is sick right now, so it’s compatible with the average human, I guess. You must be a special case. And there were only three or four ingredients I didn’t recognize, but none of them had anything in common with Earth, so there’s no way you could have known ahead of time, right?”

“Lucky me,” Shiro mutters.

“Hey, it’s a pretty easy fix, at least!” Hunk says. “We just need to make sure you don’t eat that stuff in the future. I bet Coran will have some way for us to figure out which ingredient it was, and then we just need to make sure you don’t touch it. That’s easy on our end, I do all the cooking anyway, so I just won’t use it. And if we eat out, we just need to make sure they don’t use that ingredient.”

Shiro nods wearily, and takes another tiny sip of tea.

“And it’ll be a better solution than never eating again,” Hunk adds cheerfully. “Could you imagine? Food is awesome. Who’d want to never eat again?”

“Me, right now,” Shiro mutters. After a moment he adds, “Although…I think this tea is helping.”

“Of course it is,” Hunk says. “Mama Hunk’s secret remedy, space-ified. It does the job just right.”

Shiro stays in the bathroom for another half an hour, gradually nursing the tea until it’s gone. Hunk stays with him even though he’s tired, because he’s pretty sure if he leaves, Shiro’s just going to fall asleep in the bathroom at some point, and that would _really_ hurt his neck the next morning. Shiro doesn’t seem all that confident about leaving at first, but after completely finishing the tea with no further upsets, he seems a little calmer and less shaky.

“How about you head for bed?” Hunk says. “It’s got to be more comfortable than the floor. You’ve been fine for now—you’re probably safe to go to your room.”

“Maybe,” Shiro admits. Hunk helps him up and takes the mug back, setting it on the floating tray, before walking Shiro to his room. Shiro looks exhausted—Hunk is pretty sure he’s going to be out as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

“Okay,” Hunk says, when they reach his room. “Here you go. Just take it easy—and I can tell everyone to let you sleep in a little tomorrow, if you want. Oh, and I’ll talk to Coran about ways to figure out which ingredient isn’t good for you, but in the meantime I’ll make sure we don’t use any of them. Wouldn’t want to make you sick again.”

“Thanks, Hunk,” Shiro says. He offers a weak, tired smile. “Don’t know what we’d do without a food expert like you.”

“You’d be eating paladin lunches way more often,” Hunk says.

“My stomach just settled, Hunk. Don’t make me throw up again.”

“Right, sorry. That was probably too much, too fast.” 

Shiro snorts. “Now really,” he says, as he palms the door open. “ _Go to bed._ I’m serious this time.” 

“Yes, sir!” Hunk says, offering him a Garrison-perfect salute. Shiro shakes his head, but steps into his room and is gone. Hunk, grinning, heads for his own room down the hall, suppressing a yawn as he finally gets ready for bed. 


End file.
